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THE APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 






MIRA-MONTE 





THE APPLE WOMAN 
OF THE KLICKITAT 


BY 

ANNA VAN RENSSELAER MORRIS 

ii 



NEW YORK 

DUFFIELD & COMPANY 

1918 

<Vfvv} & 



Copyright, 1918, by 
DUFFIELD & COMPANY 





♦ 



©CU503345 


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DEDICATED TO 

MARY LOUISE ROCHESTER 

FORMER 

AMERICAN REPRESENTATIVE IN PARIS 
OF 


NATIONAL SURGICAL DRESSING COMMITTEE 



ILLUSTRATIONS 


Mira-Monte 

No Scrub Oak Breeding Places for Apple-tree 
Destroying Insects Are in This Orchard . 

The Little Trees Are Now More Than Four 
Years Old 

Wrapped Separately, the Fruit Is Packed in 
Bushel Boxes, Worth Net, One Dollar per 
Box 


Frontispiece 

Facing p . 122 

“ 236 

“ 248 




















THE APPLE WOMAN 
OF KLICKITAT 


CHAPTER I 

My home is on the apex of a hill, eighteen miles 
from Mt. Hood. Between the two elevations are 
densely-wooded heights and deep canyons, the Co- 
lumbia river and Oregon’s famous Mosier valley. 
Since early spring the hills have been carpeted with 
a low-growing purple bloom which blends softly 
with the forest’s green and the sky’s pale blue. Be- 
yond Mt. Hood looms high, and aloof, as though 
to preside over even so beautiful a landscape were 
a condescension. Sometimes the heavens are so clear 
that the mountain’s peak seems to be puncturing 
them, and the whiteness of it, from snow-line to apex, 
is so dazzling that the eyes turn for relief toward 
the dense forest fringing this orchard of King David 
and Delicious apple trees. 

A big red apple lured me here. While I was eat- 
ing it, the donor, a Pacific Northwest real estate 
agent, visiting New York, told me of the glorious 
1 


2 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

climate of Klickitat County, Washington, where the 
fruit had been grown, and of the cheap lands to be 
secured there by the early — well, he drew the line 
before calling me a worm. He described the region 
as a Paradise of brief winters, cool summers and 
phenomenal prosperity. Then he paused for breath. 
I ate the apple’s core. At the moment New 
York City was in a blizzard’s grasp and my news- 
paper job in jeopardy. It seemed as though exist- 
ence would always be like that unless something 
drastic were done. 

“Break away and go in for apple-raising, April 
Godmother,” advised Seton Postley, preparing for 
Princeton and spending a week-end in town. “Were 
I of age and my own master, that would be the life 
for me. Bother books !” He helped himself to a 
second King David, jammed a Delicious into an 
overcoat pocket, grabbed his bag and a kiss and 
made off for his train. But he left his nineteen-year 
enthusiasm behind. Apple-raising, viewed from a 
distance of three thousand miles, certainly was the 
life — the only life worth considering. Without de- 
laying to seek the counsel of a cool-headed, experi- 
enced man of business, I impulsively invested the 
half of my savings in an unimproved quarter sec- 
tion — one hundred and sixty acres — of land in east- 
ern Washington. Six weeks later when a doctor ad- 
vised complete change of air and an out-of-door life 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 3 


— could that be managed — I resolved to come here 
and develop the property. The plunge was backed 
with a superb confidence born of dense ignorance of 
the soil and its tillage. 

King Winter reigned supreme in New York the 
March morning that Seton Postley escorted me to 
the railway station. “ You’re in great luck, April 
Godmother,” he said, “to be able to cut away from 
all this,” waving a hand largely. “If mother would 
only see the folly of forcing me to go through col- 
lege. And” — dolefully — “there’s six more months 
of prep, work, before beginning the four years’ 
grind.” With only his shock of fair hair and his 
blond, beardless face showing from behind the iron 
bars of the station’s concourse, the boy made me 
think of a Peri peering through the gates of Para- 
dise, as I turned to wave a final farewell when board- 
ing the west-bound train. For several moments 
thereafter I mentally echoed his favorite grumble: 
“Our part of the east has the worst climate in the 
world,” and was glad to be gliding out of it. 

Six days later I steamed up the Columbia river 
from Portland. Spring showed herself everywhere 
and filled me with admiration for everything on the 
west side of the Rocky Mountains; also a willing- 
ness to agree with a Pacific Northwest citizen who, 
discoursing enthusiastically to a group of tourists 
on the steamer’s deck, maintained that “Klickitat 


4 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


county’s climate is the finest in the world for fruit- 
raising. An orchardist need only set out a few 
hundred young trees and let Nature get busy mak- 
ing an annual income of several thousand dollars for 
him. Of course,” he added, as the steamer appeared 
about to poke her prow into the Washington bank of 
the mighty river, “it’s a pioneer country, as yet, and 
a bit roughish. But within five years it will be im- 
possible to buy an acre of orchard property within 
twenty miles of ” 

“Baldwin!” shouted a deckhand as the steamer’s 
starboard side swung against a floating dock. 

“And now’s the psychological time for buying raw 
land,” concluded the speaker, who proved to be a 
Klickitat county real estate dealer. Some of the 
tourists smiled incredulously as they accepted the 
man’s business cards. But my heart beat hopefully 
as I followed him ashore, for six miles to the north 
of Baldwin, in the heart of the region he was ex- 
ploiting, is located my quarter section. This village 
gateway to the forest primeval and the metropolis 
of the Klickitat hills, is an aggregation of wall tents 
and board shacks, standing amid a pine-tree grove 
on a wind-swept bluff between the Columbia river 
and the mouth of the Big Klickitat. Baldwin’s 
population numbers about a hundred persons — some 
of them possessing a soul. Half of the adult por- 
tion deals in real estate, and the other half devotes 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 5 


its energies to looking after business at the railway 
station, fisheries, two general stores and two hotels. 

A temptation to linger at the wharf appeared in 
the guise of a trio of Indians — a young squaw whose 
wealth of hair fell in a single lusterless black braid 
half way to her moccasin tops, a middle-aged squaw 
of enormous girth — partly due to many layers of 
clothes — and an elderly brave of dour aspect. He 
answered for the younger woman when I addressed 
a remark to her. “She no und’stan’,” he grunted, 
and possibly she did not. Anyhow, she did not look 
toward me and, failing in this initial attempt to 
climb into aboriginal society, I slowly followed a 
procession of citizens who had been awaiting the 
steamer. The meandering trail led into the heart 
of the village and to the larger of the two stores, to 
whose proprietor — Mr. John Tanner, richest, oldest, 
most influential pioneer of the county — I had a let- 
ter of introduction. The store was temporarily 
closed because on the previous day it had been sold — 
good will, stock and outstanding accounts — to a 
newcomer, who was busily taking an inventory. 
However, it was easy to locate the Tanner residence, 
a one-story, five-room shack of battened, weather- 
beaten boards, rendered wind and dust-proof by a 
lining of plaster and building paper. From a nar- 
row plank sidewalk, the front door opened into a 
living-room, whose lace curtains, Brussels carpet and 


6 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

plush-upholstered furniture contrasted oddly with 
the shack’s exterior. Several men, roughly dressed 
and wearing sheepskin chaps, were packing the con- 
tents of the other rooms. The residence had been 
sold with the store property, and the Tanners were 
expected tc move out of it so soon as they could find 
a place to move into. Meanwhile, from her rocking 
chair, the mistress of the domicile issued orders to 
the packers, and serenely darned her husband’s 
socks. Mrs. Tanner proved the most entertaining 
woman I had encountered in many a day. Within a 
few moments I felt entirely at home with her and 
was eagerly asking her questions about frontier life, 
and she as freely furnishing information, occasion- 
ally interrupting herself to speak to one of the 
packers — herders down from the sheep ranch, she 
explained, and a trifling, clumsy lot, if they weren’t 
watched. As I was about to put a question about 
the neighboring Indians, a stout woman in the late 
thirties, wearing a tailored claret serge suit, a white 
lingerie blouse and a black straw sailor, unceremoni- 
ously flung open the shack’s screen door, walked into 
the room, panting laboriously, sank heavily into a 
rocking chair, and deposited a basket beside it. 
When she had regained her breath she was intro- 
duced as “Seldie,” and from the conversation I 
quickly gathered that she had recently proved up, 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 7 


acquired title to a quarter section homestead a few 
miles beyond my property, and had just sold her 
home “forty” for twelve hundred dollars. She talked 
enthusiastically of the clothes she meant to buy and 
the trips she could take with this money until Mr. 
Tanner broke in: “Seldie,” he began gravely, 
“you’ve been living like a hermit for five years for 
the sake of owning enough property to keep you from 
starving in your old age, when you won’t be able to 
work at nothin’. If you go on the way you’re 
a-plannin’ to, you won’t have a dollar of money nor 
an acre of land at the end of another five years. 
But it’s useless to advise anything that’s wearin’ 
petticoats,” he wound up, glancing reproachfully at 
his wife, who laughed good-naturedly and despatched 
him on an errand. Then she turned to Seldie, and 
said: “What Mr. Tanner says is perfectly true. 
You’ll spend that property acre by acre, and be 
worse off in the end than you were when you first 
came to Klickitat — because you’ll be that many 
years older. Now this woman from New York was 
just asking me if there was anyone she could get 
to stay with her until her brother can come out here, 
and seems to me, you’re just the one. Since you’ve 
sold your home “forty,” you’ll have to build another 
shack or rent some sort of a shelter; either way 
you’d be putting out money you’d ought to save. 


8 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

Now she’ll pay you reasonable wages for showing 
her how folks get along in the wilderness at the 
starting off.” 

“She’s welcome to my advice about clearin’ an’ 
plantin’, and she’ll be learnin’ a lot that’s more val- 
uable by the mistakes she’ll make as she goes along,” 
added Mr. Tanner, entering from the adjoining 
room, having proceeded no further on his errand. 

As Seldie had not as yet received the purchase 
money for her home “forty” and would necessarily be 
forced to remain in the neighborhood until the 
business was settled, she listened patiently to Mrs. 
Tanner’s advice, the while stealing speculative 
glances toward me. After pondering for a while, 
she agreed to be my companion in a twelve by four- 
teen foot wall tent until such time as a ready-cut 
shack could be set up and made sufficiently com- 
fortable for my semi-invalid brother and general 
adviser. She was returning up country that after- 
noon in a neighbor’s wagon but she agreed to meet 
me the following morning at a crossroads within a 
mile of my property. As I said good-bye to her I 
felt that we might get along comfortably — if each 
made concessions to the other’s prejudices. Then, 
having made, at Mrs. Tanner’s dictation, a list of 
camping necessities, I declined her invitation to stop 
for supper, and went to the second and smaller store, 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 9 

to purchase a tent, its furnishings, and some 
groceries. 

My trunk had been carried to the larger of the 
two hotels, and at this hostelry I was ushered to the 
thirty-five cent supper table, distinguished from the 
“two-bit” board by virtue of a spotless cloth, a floral 
centerpiece and a position in a retired corner of the 
dining-room. That March evening the place was 
filled with railway employes, sheep-herders and 
homesteaders — the latter accompanied by their fam- 
ilies. Only one among the half-dozen women inter- 
ested me. She was finishing her supper as I took a 
seat at the table, and responded to my salutation 
with a shy half smile which might have been fol- 
lowed by a remark had not someone called: “Evey- 
line ! Come here !” Whereupon she pushed back her 
chair and tripped across the room to a man whose 
roughly garbed, tall, gaunt, yet muscular figure 
filled an open doorway. As she stood beside him, 
the girl — she appeared scarcely sixteen — looked 
childishly slender and unformed. “A bride,” prof- 
fered the buxom landlady, as she placed a plate before 
me. “Married last week at Yakima to that sour- 
looking feller, almost old enough to he her pa, an’ 
goin’ to live round jes’ anywheres with him — in a 
tent, mostly. He’s a well-borer, and they’re startin’ 
to-night for Hood River to bore for a rich apple 


10 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

orchardist. Did you ever see a prettier little thing ?” 
Truthfully I replied, “No.” Evey-line’s small, reg- 
ular features, gardenia complexion, soft, finely- 
grained skin and deep blue eyes were set off by a 
mass of warm brown hair that broke into bewitch- 
ing little tendrils about her brow. The atrocious 
cut of her cheap clothing could not hide the grace 
of her figure. Nor could her tight, roughly made 
shoes make her walk clumsily. “Men must have been 
scarce where she come from,” continued the land- 
lady as she sociably took a seat beside me. “That 
husband of hers has been here often, sometimes for 
quite some spell, and none of us ain’t never got a 
civil speech out of him. Yes,” ruminatively, “she 
must have been awful anxious to get away from 
whoever she was livin’ with. Likely she had a 

step ” A crash of crockery behind a swing door 

opening directly into the kitchen, brought the land- 
lady to her feet : “That butter-fingered cook ! 
There won’t be nothing left for us to serve on if he 
ain’t served his walking papers — now!” The swing 
door swung behind her and I wondered who would 
cook the morrow’s breakfast. 

Supper over, the men congregated in the big, 
bare office, the women and their tired, wailing off- 
spring crowded into the little parlor, and I climbed 
the stairs to my room. From its window could be 
seen the boats of fishermen seining for the elusive 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 11 


salmon in the Columbia, and from the street below 
me, ascended the voices of two men. Like the aver- 
age listener, I did not overhear anything flattering, 
and at once recognized the tones of the talkative 
real estate agent of the steamboat when he said: 
“That New York woman, who came this noon, won’t 
have the gumption to appreciate her luck and in a 
few months will be glad to sell out her quarter sec- 
tion at our price.” 

“Sure! She’ll be plum scared away from here 
during her first trip up Mullen hill,” replied the 
other confidently. “Lots of western women can’t 
stand for that road.” 


CHAPTER II 


Dawn was flaming like a conflagration behind the 
eastern hills when I started next morning for my 
new home. My cavalier was a freighter whose cum- 
brous wagon was drawn by four horses so restive 
that my heart fluttered between my throat and my 
toes. For a time we followed the wild romantic 
gorge of the Big Klickitat which, having cut its 
way through solid basalt rock, tumbles, tosses and 
leaps toward its outlet, the Columbia river. Two 
miles from Baldwin, the road crosses the smaller 
river via a wooden bridge. Then begins Mullen hill, 
a tortuous climb up the side of de Petrio canyon, 
magnificently, fearsomely steep. 

As the real estate dealer had prophesied, I was 
“plum” scared, for the drive over the single track, 
carved from solid rock and with only occasional wid- 
enings, where it is barely possible for wagons to pass, 
is a nerve-racking experience for an eastern woman 
unaccustomed to mountain roads. More than once 
I clutched the sleeve of the freighter, an unsympa- 
thetic as well as a reckless person, who allowed the 
horses to swing their load perilously near to the 
12 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 13 


precipice’s edge. They trotted rapidly for he good- 
naturedly blasphemed as well as diligently lashed 
them whenever their speed slackened. 

“What would happen were we to meet a runaway 
team coming down this hill?” I ventured. 

“You could climb up them cliffs. Or down into 
the gorge — if your skirts would let you.” 

“And if we should meet an automobile?” 

The freighter’s laugh awoke the canyon’s echoes. 
“There wouldn’t be nothin’ to do ! Them four 
cayuses would jest raise Hell!” 

Going up Mullen hill, which ascends twelve hun- 
dred feet in its two miles of length, we passed three 
Indian homesteads, cultivated to a very slight extent, 
chiefly with corn, with which the aborigines feed 
their ponies. It is indeed a poor Indian who has 
not from ten to fifteen of these animals. When 
about to meet a brilliantly blanketed young squaw 
riding astride of a pony and bearing a papoose upon 
her back, I confidently expected that she would halt 
and chat for a moment, but, as we were passing her, 
she turned her face from us, “Indianlike,” muttered 
the freighter, and spoke no more until a half-hour 
after reaching the top of the hill. There, having 
halted his horses, he tersely announced : “Go through 
them woods for a mile an’ you’ll come to your ranch. 
So long!” 

The wagon rattled away and left me standing be- 


14 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

side the road. My wrist-watch said ten o’clock, the 
time set by Seldie for our rendezvous. But, although 
not a soul was in sight and I could not see twenty 
feet ahead into the dense woods beyond which lay 
my ranch, I was neither afraid nor lonely. Nor yet 
discouraged for the March air was balmy as a New 
York May day is expected to be, the sunlight filtered 
through the branches of the trees upon a carpet of 
flowers, and myriads of birds chirped cheerily. 
Spring comes early to this portion of the Pacific 
Northwest, a region whose high latitude is merci- 
fully tempered by the influence of the Japan current. 

Albeit the denseness of the forest was a surprise, 
it did not dismay me. Rather was the heavy growth 
of trees a matter for rejoicing. The experienced 
Mr. Tanner, unconsciously backing up the fervent 
real estate serpent, had said that nearly all good 
fruit land in the best districts of the Pacific North- 
west is clothed with oak interspersed with pine or fir, 
and buck brush — the latter a low-growing, flower- 
ing bush with tenacious roots. To clear such land 
costs from fifty to one hundred and fifty dollars per 
acre, according to density of growth, and the local- 
ity. Generally speaking the heavier the growth, the 
better the soil; and, usually, the less fir, the better 
the climate for apple growing. Continuing to quote 
from Mr. Tanner: Plowing, harrowing, leveling and 
the setting out of trees will amount to an additional 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 15 


fifty dollars per acre, and it will take from ten to 
fifteen dollars annually to care for a planted acre 
during the first four years. After attaining that 
age the trees will begin to bear fruit, not what you 
could call a fortune. Well-cared for orchards, how- 
ever, have often returned the complete cash outlay, 
including purchase price of land, from the fifth 
year’s crop. 

Seldie did not long keep me waiting. A strident 
voice coming from the direction of the curve round 
which the freighter had disappeared announced her 
approach. Soon the claret serge suit brightened the 
landscape. Its wearer was talking to a short man 
who seemed to be composed of bone and sinew and 
with hardly more flesh upon him than a newly hatched 
chicken. Although clad in the blue overalls, straw 
hat and low-cut shoes of the newcomer who is mak- 
ing his wardrobe suit the frontier as best it can, he 
was as well set up as a soldier. He stood at atten- 
tion, motionless, immobile, while Seldie and I ex- 
changed greetings. Then she introduced him in char- 
acteristic, straight-to-the-point manner : “This 

man’s name is Peter Barney. Him and his family’s 
living about a mile up that road, on a “forty” they’ve 
just bought on time with a little money they’d saved, 
and he’s looking for a job as foreman. Being he 
was raised on a farm and afterward served as a 
sergeant in the army, he’s had experience bossing 


16 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


men. I brought him along this morning, thinking 
mebbe you’d like to talk with him.” 

Mr. Barney and I shook hands: “We shall need 
help — right away — to set up our tent — and for 
other work during this week — certainly,” I said 
lamely, having vaguely begun to realize that firewood 
and water for housekeeping would be imperative. 
“Suppose we engage your time for this week, Mr. 
Barney — and after that — we’ll see ” 

Within the next few hours Seldie proved that 
Nature had designed her for frontier life, even though 
she had started her career as a dressmaker in a 
large city. Peter Barney clearly was where he be- 
longed. Between them they lost little time about 
locating a high, dry site for the tent, and in set- 
ting it up. Aided by magic hands, Peter Barney 
could not more speedily have had the stove, cots 
and other furnishings unpacked and in place under 
the canvas, and no sooner did the tent begin to look 
like a home than Seldie appeared with a bundle of 
sticks. As she began to kindle a fire, Barney, pick- 
ing up a bucket, announced that he would get some 
water — I could not see where — and plunged into 
what looked to my untutored eyes like a trackless 
forest. A supper of bread and cheese, canned beef 
and beans set out upon a table placed under the 
tent’s fly, was waiting to be eaten and I was secretly 
pining for a cup of hot tea, when Mr. Barney ap- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 17 


peared carrying a pail of water. “Did you think 
I’d run off with the bucket?” he asked jocosely. “I 
had to stop awhile an’ visit with the lady I got it 
ofPn of. She’s your nearest neighbor — lives half a 
mile away. Mis’ Loring’s her name.” Seldie, who 
knew all about our nearest neighbors, proceeded to 
explain that Caleb Loring is known hereabout as 
the Professional Rester. He cannot work in winter 
because of the cold; nor in summer because of the 
heat. During intermediate seasons he has to rest. 
In consequence his wife supports him as well as their 
hulking, half-grown son and their elaborately dressed 
baby, by washing and baking for bachelor home- 
steaders. Although, to the casual observer, Mr. 
Loring’s appearance and manners would not sug- 
gest aristocratic lineage, he is a kinsman of a prom- 
inent New England family which boasts an Epis- 
copal bishop, and he occupies much of his time in 
searching for the missing link in the chain which 
connects him with it. It will be an interesting mo- 
ment for the onlookers when the Washington branch 
endeavors to affiliate with the Massachusetts branch 
of a family tree whose roots have been firmly im- 
bedded in Back Bay soil for three centuries, although 
the original emigrant and his titled wife — “the Lady 
Mary” — settled at Flushing, Long Island. I can 
vouch for the wealth and splendor of the pair, be- 
cause I have seen their graves. 


18 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


Within forty-eight hours after meeting Peter 
Barney it was apparent that he was going to suit as 
a foreman and that he was going to try hard to 
get along with my ignorance, since, in order to sup- 
port his wife and their four children, he must take 
employment somewhere. He expects to develop his 
own place by working early of mornings, late of 
nights and most of Sundays — a programme likely to 
tax the constitution of a Hercules. But Barney is 
optimistic. 

In common with Seldie, Barney has a genius for 
speedily and thoroughly acquainting himself with 
his environment. Consequently he was soon able to 
assemble a large gang of Italian laborers from The 
Dalles, sixteen miles east of Baldwin. They were 
set to felling the trees upon the hillside ten-acre plot, 
designed for an orchard — after consulting with Mr. 
Tanner — because of the air and water drainage af- 
forded. To accommodate this gang of laborers, it 
seemed advisable to rent from an absent home- 
steader a small holding comprising a few acres of 
partly cleared but uncultivated land, a three-room 
shack, a bunk house and — most of all important — a 
well of clearest, purest water that has never been 
known to give out. From that well comes also our 
own daily water supply, which, but for the men, 
would have to be carried by Seldie and me. Luckily, 
several of the Italians speak English to a degree, 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 19 


and through these Barney gives to the gang his 
fluent, highly seasoned orders. The employment of 
this large number of laborers and the speed with 
which the work is being pushed forward so that the 
cleared plot may be burned over directly after the 
autumn rains, amazes our neighbors. They have 
estimated the monthly payroll and mistakenly con- 
cluded that my enterprise is backed by a “barrel of 
money.” As Mr. Tanner says: “So long as you 
have the ready money to speed along the work, why 
not go at top speed and get the orchard planted 
nert spring instead of a year from now? Anyhow, 
fall planting’s no good.” 


CHAPTER III 


It is three months since that March morning when 
I stood alone but not lonely on the roadside waiting 
to be joined by Seldie. It will be five years before I 
can reasonably expect to gather a crop of apples 
from this orchard at Mira-Monte, so named because 
from the homestead hilltop one “sees the mountain,” 
which to all ears hereabout implies Hood. When 
there is rain that mountain is blanketed with gray, 
low-hanging clouds, the forests are blurred, and the 
hills are shapeless masses. And, because we have no 
umbrellas, if we are forced to go out of doors during 
a storm, we get soaked to the pelt. The rain is most 
irritating while we are traveling over the trails, for 
the trees and bushes seem always to be shaking them- 
selves while we are walking under them. Lacking a 
horse, it is next to impossible for us to use the county 
roads — actually rivers of mud, which cakes itself so 
liberally upon the boots that each successive step 
requires greater effort. For laundry purposes we 
are catching as much water as possible in a half- 
dozen hogsheads set a short distance from the tent. 
Already one of those hogsheads has caused a trag- 
20 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 21 


edy. This morning Seldie found in it a kitten which 
had tumbled over the edge during the night. The 
fatality leaves but three of the four kittens born to 
Pussy a month ago, but they are three too many. 
We did not welcome their arrival, but, as we could 
not bear to drown them, they were transferred from 
their birthplace under the tent range to an excel- 
sior-lined box in the storage shed. Pussy sees no 
reason why her offspring should not live in the tent 
and persistently carries them to its door, prepared 
to take advantage of the first chance to enter. 

Although these kittens are a great nuisance they 
are regularly fed and thrive marvelously on cereals. 
When they are frolicing happily about, looking at 
us with confiding, innocent eyes, we freely admit that 
their sole fault is their superfluity. Because of the 
depredations of field mice, one cat is a necessity. 
Pussy Mother works very hard to hold her situa- 
tion, and it is not her fault that her children are 
too indolent to earn their board. They might do 
better were she a less generous provider, always 
bringing to her family tit-bits such as mice caught 
on the clearing, and lizards patiently stalked in the 
forest. 

The most important member of this household is 
Collie, a four-months-old pup with a feathery red- 
gold coat, four white stockings, black-tipped ears and 
soulful brown eyes. Because of his evenly mixed 


22 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

shepherd and Irish setter breed, he is wonderfully 
intelligent. Also perfectly healthy, despite a tire- 
some diet of cereal and milk. He could count upon 
the toes of his paws the number of his meat feasts, 
as he gets bones only when his devoted friend, Philip 
Trevor, brings them from Portland. The first time 
that Collie had a bone he attempted to bite the 
hand of this friend, who took the tit-bit from him 
for the purpose of cracking it. Now every disin- 
terred bone is brought to us to be cracked, and not 
until then w r ill the dog gnaw at it. 

Seldie’s cow, brought here from the recently sold 
homestead “forty,” is thriving on a range of eighty 
acres, and providing more milk than we can consume 
or give to the Italian laborers — who better like red 
wine. We had been considering buying a churn and 
making butter from the surplus milk, though the 
lack of running water and a still house would handi- 
cap us — I suppose. Seldie says that we could man- 
age — some way — but I question that she has ever 
manufactured a pound of butter. In truth, I have 
never seen a pound of it in the making. 

Mr. Tanner made one of his helpful suggestions 
to-day when he dropped in for luncheon — under the 
tent’s fly — on his way home from his up-country 
sheep range : “In a couple of weeks, when my droves 
of sheep will be passing near this place, you can have 
all the lambs that hasn’t got no mothers. Bring 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 23 

’em up by hand. Feed ’em with cow’s milk. You 
won’t be able to take care of more than twenty 
lambs on this heavily wooded claim, but you can 
make eight dollars apiece on that many every year. 
And you’ll find that every dollar’ll count long be- 
fore you’ve gathered the first crop of apples.” 

Long before Mr. Tanner’s remark, I had begun to 
realize that my dollars must be carefully counted and 
husbanded. Nevertheless four hundred of them had 
been sent that day, in cheque form, in payment for a 
ready-to-set-up shack, the nucleus of a house to be 
added to from time to time as necessity shall de- 
mand. The shack includes a ten by sixteen living- 
room, with door opening directly from a six by six- 
teen porch, and a pair of eight by ten chambers. 
Behind these two small rooms, Barney is to build a 
lean-to kitchen and pantry. As the chimneys in the 
living-room and the lean-to will enable us to have 
two stoves and as there is enough firewood on the 
place to last for forty years — it seems to me — Seldie 
and I should spend a perfectly comfortable winter. 
For her sake I wish there were more neighbors of 
the sort she is willing to cultivate. She simply can- 
not endure the Lorings, and flatly refuses to asso- 
ciate with Indians. Otherwise we might — perhaps — 
get upon dropping-in-for-a-chat terms with at least 
one aboriginal family. The quarter section adjoin- 
ing my west line belongs to Indian Freddy, an in- 


24 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

dustrious, educated and prosperous aborigine, who 
cultivates about a quarter of his homestead and em- 
ploys white laborers in preference to his own kind. 
He and his squaw, to whom he is most kind and 
attentive, are rarely to be found at their Klickitat 
shack, as they have a larger property elsewhere in 
the state. Moreover, like many of the aborigines 
hereabout, they migrate to the Cascade mountains 
in the spring and remain there until late autumn. 
The neighbor on the east, Thomas Nelson, devotes 
his time and his energy to the tilling of his forty- 
acre holding, for he is desperately anxious to make 
it valuable. Dwellers hereabout refer to Nelson as 
the “sod widower,” because he is the only man in 
this region who enjoys that distinction, although 
there are several widowers of the grass variety. The 
Nelson household consists of its head and an only 
son, Percy, sixteen years of age and well known to 
everyone within a day’s — or a night’s — ride of his 
home. Percy’s regular features, large brown eyes 
and well-knit, tall figure may have much to do with 
his popularity among the young girls, but the older 
people like him for his boyish frankness, his affec- 
tion for his father, and his industrious habits. His 
love of reading specially commends him to me. It is 
a pleasure to lend him books and in every way spur 
his ambition to acquire an education. 

In the diction of this region, our second nearest 
neighbor, Mr. Francis Rawle, “baches.” He is a 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 25 


freighter and his home is the most attractive look- 
ing one hereabout. The two-story, hip-roofed shack 
has that unusual advantage, a veranda crossing its 
front, and from its steps a graveled path runs be- 
tween rows of tall trees to the gate. At the rear is a 
young orchard flanked by corn fields. Beyond is the 
virgin forest. Yet the green window blinds of the 
shack are always closely drawn and rarely does 
smoke issue from its chimney, for the freighter has 
divorced the wife for whom he made the home. Their 
story is one common the world over. The childless 
wife, discontented with life in a sparsely settled 
place, met, during frequent visits to friends in 
Baldwin, a man who told her and — more flatter- 
ingly dangerous — showed her his admiration. By 
degrees she passed more and more time away from 
her home. Then the neighbors “talked,” some friend 
considered it a religious duty to tell the husband of 
his wife’s flirtation, followed mutual recriminations, 
and finally a divorce. Rather than pay alimony, 
Rawle divided his property equally with the woman, 
giving her an up-country ranch and keeping for him- 
self the homestead facing the county road. There 
he lives, “doing for himself” whenever at home, and 
paying scant attention to his neighbors who describe 
him as a good fellow and his ex-wife as a fool. “I’ve 
knowed Cassandra Rawle sence she was a little girl 
an’ she ain’t naturally bad,” declares Mr. John 
Tanner. “She jest thinks it’s smart to be fast.” 


CHAPTER IV 


Throughout October the shack’s windows and 
doors remained wide open, the air was like wine and 
the sun streamed warmly upon hills and canyons 
clothed with red and gold foliage. Many of our days 
were spent in raking the ground clean of leaves and 
twigs and piling them upon bonfires on the clearing, 
purely for the pleasure of inhaling the odor of the 
burning pine logs, and of being employed out of 
doors. To get this ten acres of land cleared, we 
have sacrificed wood, which, were it in a market- 
able region, would net a small fortune. Already 
enough oak sticks have been burned to warm the 
half of a city’s poor during a winter. From the 
opposite side of the Columbia river has recently 
come the smoke of a great fire which must have de- 
stroyed acres of timber as it ate its way through 
the wilderness. After sunset the conflagration flared 
high in great forks or formed an enormous red patch 
against the curtain of the night, and, as it burned, 
left in its wake a blackened waste of woodland ; per- 
chance some ruined homes. On many evenings one 
enormous pile of logs and brush on my clearing 
26 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 27 


would be lighted. These fires burned fiercely all 
night, tended carefully by a laborer, lest a flying 
spark ignite a neighbor’s woods. On bon-fire eve- 
nings I would squat on a boulder and watch the pic- 
tures formed by the flaming wood. They were 
kaleidoscopic. Sometimes a log would look like the 
hound of the Baskervilles with fire coming from its 
nostrils and its eyes. Then the glowing wood would 
suddenly change to the semblance of a burning city. 
The next moment some detached section of wood 
would fall and, in place of the city, would be a hap- 
less ship tossing on a sea of flame. During one of 
these evenings there floated to our ears from across 
de Petrio Canyon, the noise of tom-toms and the 
shouting of many voices. The Klickitats were hav- 
ing some sort of celebration: a feast, a marriage, 
perchance a funeral. Whatever it might be, I wanted 
to attend it. But Seldie promptly discouraged me. 
Having lived for years among these aborigines, she 
views them from a practical standpoint and sees 
them merely as grafters of untidy and lazy habits. 
To my less experienced vision they appear pic- 
turesque and intensely interesting. For many 
months I have been anxiously awaiting an oppor- 
tunity to witness an Indian social function, and to 
have missed one taking place within walking distance 
was a bitter disappointment. But I am not incon- 
solable, having long ago realized that few of the dis- 


28 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

appointments which come to us in this world are 
worth feeling very badly about. 

Seldie is better content here than I had, at times, 
dared to hope that she would be. That is because 
she is “a slave to a harem of hens and turkeys wished 
upon us by Mrs. Tanner,” to quote a complaint that 
Seldie has been making nearly every day for months. 
In consequence she now has nearly a hundred chick- 
ens and fully fifty young turkeys to “worry” her. 
These she keeps in separate yards, close to the house 
and not far from a well dug during the summer and 
partially filled with seepage water. A third “worry” 
is a pair of pigs — donated by Montmorenci Jones, 
the real estate man whom Seldie terms her business 
representative. Occasionally Mr. Tanner remarks 
cryptically that Jones’ conscience must prick him 
whenever he thinks about Seldie’s home “forty,” but 
he is careful not to make this comment within her 
hearing, and it is not my business to probe for its 
meaning. The pigs reside on a ten-acre patch at 
some distance from the shack, and, although the land 
is mine, the fence enclosing it, as well as those shut- 
ting in the poultry, was erected by Seldie at a total 
cost of one hundred dollars, advanced by Mr. Tan- 
ner. She expects to make the amount of the loan 
from the sale of fresh eggs and chickens during the 
coming winter, and to eventually sell the fences to 
ipe. 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 29 


One might suppose that time would hang heavily 
upon our hands. Truth to tell the days are not 
long enough for us to accomplish all that we would 
like to do about the place or within the shack. Look- 
ing after the poultry, sheep and pigs keeps us busy 
from sunrise to sunset. During the evening we are 
sufficiently amused with books and periodicals. And 
once during each twenty-four hours I have to tell 
Seldie’s fortune with the cards. To make her fate a 
little different each time is becoming rather a strain 
upon the imagination. Seldie is constantly adding 
comforts to the shack’s furnishings. She crocheted 
the rag rugs partly covering the floors of slender 
matched boards, made the tables and the couches in 
our living-room, and has softened every seat in the 
house with a pine-needle-filled mattress or a cushion. 
Often while Seldie is sewing by the light of the big 
lamp, I am surreptitiously figuring with pencil on 
paper. Last evening, after a careful perusal of a 
real estate bulletin from Montmorenci Jones, I esti- 
mated that at the rate land values in Klickitat 
county are jumping, this quarter section should, 
after another year, be worth fifty dollars per acre. 
Not that I wish to sell out. Perish that thought! 
The view of Mount Hood would suffice to hold me 
here. 

Because I like to view the great white peak from 
every possible vantage point, I take time for 3 , walk 


30 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


every afternoon, leaving Seldie to contend with the 
“worries” and have a perfectly beautiful time scold- 
ing at them. Whenever allowed to go with me, Col- 
lie indicates that his favorite ramble is a wagon track 
winding up and down the sides of a canyon for nearly 
a mile before joining the county road. The way lies 
among huge pines, glades of scrub oak and clumps of 
bushes, and though pretending to act as escort, the 
dog always is rushing madly ahead or plunging into 
thickets in chase of squirrels, lizards or birds. Some- 
times he will raise a half-dozen partridge, making the 
poor creatures flutter hysterically before they begin 
to fly, screaming shrilly, over the tree-tops. He gets 
absurdly excited whenever he trees a squirrel, and 
barks so loudly that there might be just complaints 
from neighbors were there any living within hear- 
ing of his voice. Though the dog is often out of 
sight, he never roams beyond sound of my voice and 
scarcely a minute after a call comes dashing back 
to the first bend of the track, where he waits with 
eager eyes, upraised head and active tail until as- 
sured that he is seen. Then he is off again, darting 
through the brush like a tawny streak, his waving, 
plumelike tail glinting amongst the foliage. 

Shamelessly do I confess to an arrant cowardli- 
ness, which, time and again, impels me to make wide 
detours at sight of herds of roaming cattle, and to 
avoid strange trails, lest I encounter a bear. The 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 31 


bruin of this region is contemptuously described by 
the settlers as a “little black pig,” worthy only of 
derision. Yet sundry pelts exhibited at Baldwin must 
have warmed animals many sizes larger than a full- 
grown porker. It may be that a resident member 
of the Bruin family would become panic stricken at 
the spectacle of a woman in a blue calico frock and a 
dog in a yellow-red coat, but there is an off chance 
that it would not. Only once have I been seriously 
alarmed while walking in the forest and on that oc- 
casion the fright was caused by Collie’s nervous be- 
havior. He leaped suddenly from the top of a high 
bank at one side of the wagon track, and raced madly 
away, as though something were pursuing him. 
After a time he ventured part way back, and, stop- 
ping at a distance of about fifty feet, regarded me 
anxiously as though saying: “Now you’re exactly op- 
posite to the place where I jumped and you’ll never 
get past it alive !” Then he howled dismally. Never- 
theless, there was no other means of reaching home. 
So I grasped my stick firmly, walked briskly forward, 
and — nothing happened. Collie may have encoun- 
tered a cougar that day, for the same night the howl 
of one of these animals came from the direction of 
the lower well. This creature’s cry is like that of a 
despairing woman — as portrayed on the stage. It 
may be, as Seldie maintains, that the souls of women 
who believe themselves to be eternally damned, enter 


32 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

into the bodies of cougars. Why victimize the cou- 
gars ? 

Collie delights to chase Indian ponies, and, when- 
ever he comes upon a herd, sends them scampering 
madly along the road. Once started upon this reck- 
less sport, it is impossible to reduce him to order, as 
he never desists until thoroughly fatigued. The 
other day, however, an Indian pony, aroused to just 
wrath by the dog’s behavior, and probably ashamed 
of being driven like a frightened lamb by a yellow- 
red animal not one-quarter of his size, turned, 
stopped in the center of the road, and stared in- 
tently at his pursuer. Collie also stopped for a mo- 
ment, then again rushed forward and instantly the 
frantic gallop was resumed by all save the rear pony. 
That one waited until the dog began to bark beside 
his legs, then suddenly wheeled and plunged forward 
with forefeet upraised, prepared to plant them upon 
his tormentor’s back with a force which inevitably 
would have crushed him. The instinct of self-preser- 
vation sent Collie headlong into a thicket too dense 
for the pony to negotiate. For several moments the 
would-be avenger stood statue still; then, realizing 
that his enemy’s retreat was impregnable against at- 
tack, trotted after the rest of the herd. Not until 
the noise of their hoofs’ impact had ceased did Collie 
venture from his fortress. Nevertheless, this fright 
did not teach him a lesson, for, a half-hour later, he 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 33 


chased a second herd of ponies, and, as it chanced, 
djrectly toward their owner. The Indian, on horse- 
back, of course, had been spared a long and weari- 
some search by Collie, and, in recognition of his 
service, bestowed upon him a patronizing pat, a 
caress promptly resented by his own dog, a jealous 
wolf-mongrel, which snapped viciously at the 
stranger canine. This attack was at once punished 
by a five-year-old boy whom the Indian had lifted 
from the pony. The mite, striking at the cur with 
a stout little stick, sent it howling away. Then, 
turning and addressing me, introduced himself : “Me 
Jim. Me big Injun man !” 

Seton Postley would term the Tanner family a 
“group of uniques,” and were he now here would have 
chances a-plenty to study them. The ancient 
pioneer — restless ever since selling his store at Bald- 
win — has recently started, in a small way, a similar 
business at Fruitdale, a settlement six miles north 
of Mira-Monte, and, unless greatly hurried, stops 
here when going to or coming from the store, which 
is under the direct supervision of his third daughter, 
Edith. The other day — the one set by Richard as 
the date of his probable arrival here — Collie ushered 
in Mr. and Mrs. Tanner and Miss Edith, who, ulti- 
mately, were persuaded to remain for a luncheon of 
fresh eggs and new potatoes — home products — sup- 
plemented by tinned soup and canned peaches from 


34 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


the emergency stores. In the course of the world- 
round travels planned for Seton by his mother, he 
will encounter few persons so interesting as are the 
Tanners. The father is a humorist-philosopher, the 
mother has a fund of reminiscence of Pacific North- 
west pioneer life which she relates graphically in pic- 
turesque diction, and the daughter enriches her 
conversation with naive common-sense comments. 
Like her three sisters, Edith Tanner has thick, fine, 
dull, black hair framing small, regular features; a 
clear brunette complexion, and big, bright, expres- 
sive, blue eyes. These four young women are thor- 
oughly educated. When scarcely more than toddlers, 
they were sent to the Holy Name Convent at The 
Dalles, Oregon, and, after being graduated by the 
nuns, went to a Portland commercial college. Dur- 
ing the long vacations passed at the parental sheep 
ranch of six thousand acres, they learned the domes- 
tic arts from their mother, and the art of managing 
horses from their father. Consequently, they are 
skilled housekeepers and horse-breakers, in addition 
to having the accomplishments of gentlewomen and 
the practical training of business women. Mr. Tan- 
ner has started each of his daughters in an inde- 
pendent business by giving them a share of his large 
estate now instead of clinging to it until death forces 
him to loosen his grip. The youngest daughter is the 
real owner of the new store at Fruitdale ; the second 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 35 


and third daughters have orchards, developed under 
their personal supervision, and ten years ago the 
eldest daughter, then a bride, began to raise sheep 
on a few hundred acres of grass land. She and her 
husband started their married life in a small shack, 
and their business with a few head of sheep. There 
were no servants to pay, because none were to be 
had in that region, and no neighbors to visit, enter- 
tain and dress for, because in the sheep sections each 
range usually includes several thousand acres, 
and individual holdings include miles of territory. 
Nearly all of the income earned by this ambitious 
young couple was devoted to the purchase of addi- 
tional property. Yet the years passed in that region 
were not unspeakably lonely, according to Edith 
Tanner, who explained that “there was always too 
much for two persons to do.” By the time that the 
second baby had arrived, there was more than enough 
to occupy the time of three persons, so the young 
mother sent for her sister Edith. 

A sheep range fifteen miles from a village, and two 
miles from a neighbor could scarcely have been a 
lively abiding place for a girl just released from 
school. Apparently, the environment did not bore 
Miss Tanner, as she remained in it for eighteen con- 
secutive months. One day while alone on the ranch, 
she went into a cellar of the sort having an outside 
door leading from the yard, and there discovered 


36 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


an Indian deliberately emptying a box of its contents 
and setting at one side whatever articles appealed to 
his fancy. When asked what he was doing, the 
aborigine replied with a grunt, and when ordered 
away, he sullenly departed, the while uttering fiercer 
grunts. Nevertheless, Miss Tanner’s voice and man- 
ner were sufficiently effective, whereas I should so 
plainly have registered fear that the termination of 
the interview would have found the Indian in pos- 
session of the ranch, and I fleeing to the nearest 
white neighbor. Miss Tanner casually remarked 
that, “of course, the Indian was drunk and didn’t 
know what he was doing.” Yet any frontier-reared 
girl knows that an intoxicated aborigine is a fear- 
some and reckless creature. While his daughter was 
describing sheep-ranch life, her father, roaming 
about the living room, paused before a photograph 
of Seton Postley, and finally handed it to his wife. 
She nodded approval: “A nice-looking boy; sure to 
amount to something,” was her verdict. 

“Unless the fortune that he hasn’t been obliged to 
earn for himself does not spoil him,” said Seldie, who 
at times is a bit pessimistic. 

“Get him to bring some of that fortune out this 
way and help to develop the region. And marry one 
of its girls. They can’t be beat anywheres,” boasted 
the old pioneer. 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 37 

This time Mrs. Tanner shook her head : “That sort 
of boy wouldn’t fancy a western-bred girl.” 

“You never can tell what sort of girl a feller’ll 
fancy.” The father of Miss Edith chuckled softly. 
“It’s liable to be anyone — born anywhere — who’s 
hard to get. That’s the only sure rule to go by. 
Them kind of matters ain’t any different back east 
than they are in the west.” 

Mrs. Tanner has never been “back east.” She 
was born in Salem, Oregon, shortly after the arrival 
there of her Swiss-American parents, who, during 
1847, migrated to the Pacific Northwest from In- 
diana. In her babyhood she underwent the most 
severe privations of frontier life, as it was several 
years before the settlers were able to procure prop- 
erly prepared flour. Often they were without coffee, 
pork, eggs and tea, while for lack of fresh vegetables, 
fruit and meat, nearly all of those early pioneers 
suffered with scurvy. Under this affliction they 
usually lost their fingernails temporarily, and, not 
infrequently, their teeth permanently. During the 
fourth summer following their marriage, the Tan- 
ners moved to a portion of Washington infested with 
discontented, uneasy and hostile Indians. As the 
husband’s business frequently called him away from 
home for long periods, the wife, her two-year-old 
child, an infant in arms, and a half-grown girl who 


38 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


helped with the housework, were alone at the ranch. 
And because there were no neighbors near enough to 
help her in case of an Indian attack, Mrs. Tanner 
had planned to go out of one door while the ma- 
rauders were breaking down the other, and, with her 
children, hide in the tall corn growing on the clear- 
ing. 

“Had you a dog?” asked Seldie. 

“No,” was the reply. “Of course, I should have 
had one.” 

Seldie shook her head: “It was better not to have 
one — anyhow a dog like Collie who would have fol- 
lowed you so devotedly that he would have led the 
marauders straight to your hiding-place.” 

For fourteen years Mrs. Tanner lived in that 
lonely home, bearing and rearing children, and rarely 
encountering any of her white neighbors. But the 
red neighbors came often to the house, and, in times 
of illness, assumed both the nursing and the domestic 
work. “I never shall forget the kindness of those 
Indian women,” she said. “They were willing to do 
anything for me; as much as any white friends I’ve 
ever had. Don’t you let anybody prejudice you 
against these Klickitats,” she added, as her husband 
assisted her into their “hack.” “They’re kind- 
hearted, loyal friends so long as they believe that 
you are straightforward with them and mean to keep 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 39 

your promises. It’s astonishing how keenly they can 
read character. I know all the Indian women living 
near here, and you may safely make friends of 
them.” 

The Tanners waved good-bye and drove away only 
a half-hour before the arrival of Richard, who, reach- 
ing Baldwin at noon, had wasted no time in hiring 
a man to drive him here. His admiration for the 
scenery was boundless, his opinion of my apple-rais- 
ing scheme was reserved, and his scorn for a person 
who would buy a quarter section of land without even 
asking if it included a well or a reliable spring was — ■ 
funny. It was interesting to watch Seldie studying 
Richard when she believed herself to be unobserved. 
But not until late that night did she voice her opin- 
ion: “Mr. Van Cortlandt looks like some of the re- 
tired British army officers who used to come into the 
dressmaking shop — with their womenfolks — where I 
worked in Victoria, British Columbia. No one would 
ever mistake him for a Yankee.” 

“For Heaven’s sake !” I exclaimed. “Never let my 
brother guess that you think he looks other than a 
typical American. That’s his proudest boast — being 
an American — though more than half of his life has 
been passed away from his native land.” 

“Well, whatever he wants to be like or doesn’t 
want to be like, he can’t scare me with his grand man- 


40 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


ners and his book talk,” retorted Seldie, as she blew 
out her candle. “I sha’n’t change my ways one mite 
on account of him.” 

“Your friend is so absolutely natural and so free 
of pretence, that no one could help liking her,” re- 
marked Richard next morning. “It’s a relief to meet 
a woman of her sort. One instantly senses her hon- 
esty.” 

As Seldie, fortunately, chanced to overhear Rich- 
ard’s estimate of her, she so willingly met his friendly 
advances that within the week they were fast friends. 
He was genuinely regretful when she began her prep- 
arations for leaving, and urged her to, at least, pass 
the remainder of the summer with us. But Seldie 
was firm about putting into execution her scheme for 
having a summer camp for city shop-girls to rest at, 
and commune with nature were they so inclined. To 
her practical mind the best site for the camp was a 
narrow strip of unoccupied land between the Golden- 
dale Railway tracks and the bank of the Big Klicki- 
tat river, about two miles north of Baldwin. Upon 
this land Seldie squatted, incidentally taking pos- 
session of a deserted log cabin to which no one there- 
about laid claim. The house is used as a living- 
room, a large wall tent serves as a dressing-room, 
that tent’s fly, supported by rough poles, is a sleep- 
ing-porch by night and a dining-room by day, and the 
cooking is accomplished over a fire built on several 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 41 


large, flat stones. Seldie easily solved the water 
question by tapping a pipe running from the river to 
the railway company’s power house. During the 
summer she had relays of boarders, chiefly girls from 
city shops, who gladly paid her seven dollars weekly 
for the privilege of living so close to nature. Seldie 
works very hard to make her boarders comfortable, 
and has far less leisure than would be hers were 
she to follow her trade, that of dressmaker and la- 
dies’ tailor. That she prefers dishwashing and cook- 
ing to the less laborious employment is an amazement 
to everybody hereabout, excepting Richard. With- 
out claiming to possess remarkable acumen, he says 
that he can readily understand why a woman who had 
sewed steadily for a quarter of a century, must de- 
test the sight of scissors, needles and thread reels, 
and find fascinating variety in serving simple fare 
to an ever-changing selection of paying guests. 


CHAPTER V 


Had Richard been at hand at the time of my in- 
vestment in Washington state real estate, he would 
have made absolutely certain that I was buying water 
as well as land. Times innumerable since coming 
here last summer he has assured me that my hasty 
investment proves conclusively to him that women 
are unfit to have the franchise (Washington long 
ago gave that privilege(?) to its women), since any 
glib-tongued real-estate broker seems able to talk 
their money from their pockets, and that the rule 
applies equally to a political speaker seeking the vote 
of the sex that is termed gentle. The Pacific North- 
west land-serpent, who tempted me with a big, red 
apple, told the truth when he said that this quarter 
section would not need irrigation. It will not. And 
he certainly promised me a right-of-way through the 
property lying between mine and the county road. 
The latter promise, however, was not in the deed, and 
I learned shortly after coming here that Caleb Lor- 
ing had always said that no one should ever have 
a right-of-way through his property. Nor will he 
sell his land save at a prohibitive price. 

42 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT, 43 

“Anyhow, you blundered into the right region,” 
admits Richard. “In fact, you could scarcely have 
done better, for within six miles there is railway and 
steamboat transportation for the fruit — when there 
is any to market — and your orchard, on a hill three 
thousand feet above sea-level and surrounded by can- 
yons, has drainage of air. This practically insures 
the trees against frost, because the heavier air settles 
in the canyons.” 

In addition the tlie air-drainage, the water is 
drained off from my hill orchard as it would not be 
were it located on low, flat land. Most of the or- 
chardists in this country of the Klickitats prefer 
the northerly and easterly slopes of hills, because 
they are apt to warm up later in the spring, are a 
partial preventative against frosts and retard the 
blossoming period. Other growers contend, and with 
reason, that the southerly slopes, being earlier, give 
a longer growing season and receive much more sun- 
shine. When the altitude is high, the southerly and 
easterly slopes are advisable, but usually the direc- 
tion of the slope will not prove an important factor. 

During the summer and autumn after Richard’s 
arrival, the shack had seemed spacious, because so 
little of our time was passed inside of it. But with 
the first frosty weather and the arrival of a wagon- 
load of books, pictures, and antique furniture from 
the east, an extra room was absolutely necessary. 


44 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

Mr. Barney was only a few weeks engaged with the 
task of tacking this wing to the w T est end of the 
shack, and, because of the rows of book-shelves at 
one end of it, he christened it a library. Collie likes 
the new room because the Franklin stove’s open front 
quickly dries his coat after he has been rolling in the 
snow. Seldie approves of the library, because its 
three windows, facing as many points of the com- 
pass, let in plenty of sunlight, and because a canned 
music machine — sent out by Seton Postley — plays 
only the liveliest of tunes. Nevertheless, she declines 
to return and pass this winter with us and is now 
on the eve of moving from her river camp into a 
city. “Not to work,” as she haughtily informed 
her dearest foe, Mrs. Blacke-McCormick, when they 
encountered each other at Letter Box Grove, their 
customary duelling ground. Mrs. McCormick, the 
social leader of this region, had “guessed” that Seldie 
was planning to temporarily resume her trade in one 
of the cities about a hundred miles from here, but our 
friend insists upon posing as a woman of independ- 
ent position and the ability to pay her way wherever 
she may choose to wander. Therefore, instead of 
passing this winter comfortably and economically in 
the Klickitat hills, she elects to go to Portland and 
enjoy the society which she finds in cheap lodging 
houses, and the still cheaper diversions afforded by 
the department shops and the motion-picture thea- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 45 


ters. Two-thirds of the twelve hundred dollars which 
Seldie received for her home, “forty” were owing to 
John Tanner for groceries, furniture and clothing; 
two hundred dollars were due to a Portland physician 
for advice and drugs, and the remainder to various 
friends who had advanced small sums during her 
five years of homesteading. By next spring she prob- 
ably will not have a dollar remaining from the pur- 
chase price of her home “forty,” and in all likelihood 
will be contracting fresh debts. She is, in fact, talk- 
ing of mortgaging the remainder of her land, which 
is so situated that its value is rapidly increasing. 

“At the end of five years you won’t have a two-bit 
piece or an acre of land,” warned Mr. Tanner, who 
drove through Letter Box Grove this morning, as we 
were waiting for the mail stage. “You’re jest foolin’ 
away your property, Seldie. Why don’t you do a 
little mite of work — jest enough to keep out of debt 
until next spring?” 

Seldie laughed. “What would be the sense of me 
trying to keep out of debt so long’s there’s a fool 
storekeeper in this district?” 

“Even a fool storekeeper passes over some time or 
other,” retorted the old pioneer. “And I’m pretty 
near seventy-five years old.” 

“There’s a fool born every hour,” said Seldie, wlio 
invariably has the final word in a tilt with a man. 

Seldie is so busy with her preparations for leav- 


46 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

ing that she declined to go with us to-day as far as 
the Swansens, from whom we customarily buy the 
small amount of butter that we need. Anyhow, she 
has always professed not to feel at home with them 
and for no reason other than that they are the only 
Danes she has ever encountered. 

For seventeen years the Swansens have lived among 
the Klickitat hills, having migrated here from South 
Carolina, whither they had come two years before 
from their native Denmark. Their quarter section 
is a narrow strip of property lying between do Petrio 
Canyon and the main county road. The land is of 
indifferent quality, yet, for a decade, they easily made 
a living by running cattle over the surrounding 
lands, then unfenced and, therefore, free range. By 
degrees other homesteaders, taking up claims, built 
fences, and, with a too-restricted pasturage, the cat- 
tle-raising Danes ultimately found themselves de- 
pendent upon whatever money could be obtained by 
the sale of poultry, butter and eggs. During a resi- 
dence of nearly two decades they have not cleared 
enough land to raise a marketable crop of grain or 
alfalfa. Meanwhile, scarcely any of their holding 
has been fenced, although they years ago proved up 
on the claim. Always when looking at that place, I 
mentally pat my own back, for, during the three 
years since I located here, my quarter section has 
been fenced in, ten acres of land are planted witK 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 47 

apple trees and five other acres have been slashed and 
burned over, then grubbed so thoroughly that never 
a meandering root remains. Early next spring they 
will be in readiness for ploughing and planting. This 
prospect so elates me that whenever I vocally com- 
pare the condition of my holding with that of the 
Danes’, Richard sharply pulls me up by saying: 
“Don’t forget that you had the money to pay for 
getting all that work done quickly by a big gang of 
Italians. The Swansens would have had to do every- 
thing with their own hands.” 

Whereupon I retort: “They’ve had that home- 
stead for nearly twenty years, and should have that 
many acres cleared. You have often said that one 
man, unaided, should easily clear and plant an acre 
of land in a year’s time.” 

Only when actually gazing upon Mira-Monte does 
it appear to be a stretch of almost unbroken forest, 
in many places so heavily covered with pine, oak and 
brush that it is impossible to see two rods in advance. 
When not actually before my physical eyes, I visual- 
ize it as a vast garden. It is hard for me to forgive 
the Swansens for not having been more industrious. 
The approach to their shack is extremely pictur- 
esque, whether one enters from the main road by 
turning into an avenue bordered by flowering bushes, 
or uses a forest trail and then crosses several roughly 
cleared fields. The homestead, embowered with 


48 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


bushes and nestling amid stately oaks, is immediately 
surrounded by a formal, foreign-looking garden of 
old-fashioned perennials, divided by field stone-bor- 
dered paths. Beyond the picket fence, which en- 
closes the garden, is the barn-yard and its hip-roofed 
wagon, horse and cow sheds ; also slat-fenced runs for 
fowl and swine — a bit of the Old World farm life, 
framed by the wild scenery of the New World. The 
owners of the place harmonize with it. The wife, 
who speaks English indifferently, is a seventy-year- 
old woman of squat, square figure, and wears the 
peasant garb of her native land. Soft, fine, lint- 
white hair is drawn tightly back from her wrinkled 
face, where linger patches of pink upon a skin fair 
in contrast with her deeply tanned, work-distorted 
hands. Her husband is also squat, square and blond. 
Because his father served in some capacity at the 
country estate of Queen Alexandra’s parents, it is 
not surprising that this Danish peasant’s manners 
ate those of a courtier, for he must have come into 
contact with many a personage. In the living-room 
of his home hangs a chromo portrait of England’s 
Queen Mother, done nearly forty years ago. 

“I saw her drive through Hyde Park last Alexan- 
dra Day,” remarked Richard, as we all stood before 
the unframed chromo, “and, to my eyes, she seemed 
slender, fair and young.” 

“She is like her mother, Queen Louise,” the old 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 49 

Dane replied in tones almost reverential. “I saw her 
often — at home — and she looked always beautiful 
and young. The women of our royal family do not 
grow old — ever.” 

With the Swansens live a widowed daughter and 
her ten-year-old son. The child has the vacant, mel- 
ancholy expression of the mentally undeveloped, but 
he has imbibed the courtly manner of his grandsire, 
and is the only lad in this region who doffs his hat 
when he meets a woman. The widow cherishes a pa- 
thetically deep affection for her afflicted child who 
represents her brief, youthful romance. She might 
easily have found another husband in this pioneer 
region where women are scarce, for she is a decidedly 
pretty, ethereal-looking blonde, with a girlish manner 
and a soft, low voice. With her son she occupies a 
two-room addition to the kitchen wing of her par- 
ents’ shack, across the front of which is a veranda 
partly built about a huge oak, whose trunk, running 
up through the flooring, forms an inconveniently lo- 
cated pillar, which, piercing the roof, spreads wide, 
protecting branches above it. So rarely are trees 
permitted to remain near a settler’s homestead that 
I asked the Danes’ daughter how this one chanced to 
escape the axe. 

“Mamma said that she would rather do without 
the veranda than to lose that tree,” replied the 
widow. “At home — in Denmark — there were trees — 


50 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


old trees — all about our house. We missed them 
here. No,” shaking her blonde head — “mamma 
would not let this one be cut down, although papa 
said at first that it must surely be destroyed.” 

After a moment of silence, she went on : “My hus- 
band liked trees, too. There were many of them 
about our home.” She stared straight ahead, as 
though she were looking at that over-seas home 
in the Old World instead of across a mountain can- 
yon of the New World. “But we were not long mar- 
ried or he much with me. He was a sea captain, al- 
ways sailing the Atlantic. I met him in North Caro- 
lina, but was in Denmark when papa and mamma 
and the rest of the family moved here. When my 
husband — died” — the word came with an effort — “at 
sea, I could not bear to remain in the home that he 
had made for me, or to sell the furniture that he had 
bought for it. So I left it with friends — here a little, 
there a little. They said they could promise to keep 
it for ten years, anyhow. It’s eleven years since I 
left the old country. Perhaps I shall never go back 
there. It is so long a journey and my little boy is — 
nervous.” 

The widow’s parents have recently had an offer 
of four thousand dollars for a portion of their quar- 
ter section, and the sum seems a fortune to the pair 
of ancient Danes who never have had more than a 
few hundred dollars at one time. Their daughter 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT SI 


owns a quarter section, acquired under the home- 
stead laws, although the neighbors say that she 
actually did not live upon the place, because the 
land commissioners strained a point in her case, and 
allowed her to stay with her parents because of their 
advanced age, instead of insisting that she sleep on 
the section every night for five years. The chances 
are, however, that she obeyed the law to the letter. 
She does, as a matter of fact, occasionally leave home 
to sew for friends at Baldwin, Hood River, White 
Salmon, and other villages along the Columbia, and 
thus earns a little money as well as the beneficial ef- 
fects of a change of air and scene. 

A quarter section adjoining the property of the 
elderly Danes belongs to a married son. He and 
his wife have three small daughters — Thora, Mabel 
and Hazel. Every well-regulated Pacific Northwest 
family includes a Hazel. The mother of these three 
Danish-Americans is ambitious to dress them pre- 
cisely alike, but a limited income forces Her to garb 
them by a system of descent. The frock worn last 
year by the oldest girl is now the property of the 
second daughter, and next season will descend to the 
3 7 oungest sister. As this rule is applied to all of 
their garments, only the wardrobe of Thora is ever 
considered. This economic arrangement will prove 
practicable for so long as the three young Swansens 
continue to develope proportionately, and would be 


52 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


totally upset were Mabel or Hazel to suddenly grow 
taller or broader than the elder sister. Instead of 
living in the comfortable frame house on their ranch, 
the younger family of Danes crowds itself into a wall 
tent at Baldwin, where, as Mrs. Swansen expresses 
it, “There’s some society.” 


CHAPTER VI 


One of many enthusiastically worded screeds sent 
by us to the East has borne fruit in the form of a 
letter from Seton Postley, stating that we may 
shortly expect him here for a long visit. Ever 
since the receipt of this news I have been wondering 
why he did not elect to summer at Bar Harbor with 
his aunt and his debutante cousin instead of among 
the Klickitat hills with his godmother and her semi- 
invalid brother. It is quite possible that Seton’s 
mother — a hard-headed, worldly wise widow, encour- 
aged him to come here in order to prevent him — a 
Princetonian of susceptible age — from getting into 
an entanglement with one of the cradle-robbing girls 
who infest fashionable seaside resorts. While in this 
region the youthful scion of the house of Postley will 
be perfectly safe from the marring effects of an early 
marriage since everybody shall be led to suppose that 
he will have to make his own way after being gradu- 
ated from college, instead of coming into possession 
of several millions of dollars on the twenty-first an- 
niversary of his birth. Only an abnormal thirst for 
the novel will induce him to persist in “roughing it” 
53 


54 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


with us, since an important feature of that experi- 
ence will be a sense of perpetual griminess. The 
bathtub, recently set up, has never been baptized, al- 
though connected by pipes with the upper well. That 
hole, which, last winter, held between seventy and 
eighty feet of seepage water, is now as dry as a pro- 
hibition county is supposed to be — by a few persons. 
As all the water now consumed by us must be taken 
from the lower well, I have begun to realize how vast 
is the difference between carrying it for a quarter of 
a mile and turning a tap in the kitchen. For the 
first time in my life I can appreciate the importance 
of a fluid which I had erroneously considered as free 
as salvation. An}diow, in this Klickitat wilderness, 
salvation is never discussed, and water is so scarce — 
because of this unprecedented season of drought — 
that every bucketful is jealously husbanded. Those 
persons who have a supply of water do not give any 
away if they can decently avoid doing so. A spring 
well here is a mark of aristocracy more convincing 
than an ivy-draped castle in the Old World. I 
would rather possess a source of unlimited water than 
the privilege of remaining seated in the presence of 
a royalty. 

With one member of this household aristocratic — - 
even royal — birth would count for naught. Collie 
does not discriminate between persons and would wel- 
come a tramp as effusively as he does his oldest 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 55 


friends. He is perfectly charmed to meet anybody, 
and we have long ceased to expect him to frighten 
away undesirable visitors. But his appearance is im- 
pressive and that counts for as much in the case of a 
dog as it does in the case of a great many absolutely 
unimportant humans. Anyhow, having no other 
watchdog, Richard and I have made Collie to under- 
stand that whenever we leave the place together, he 
is to remain close to the shack. He always accom- 
panies us to the bar-gate separating the driveway 
from the various trails through the woods, and from 
the illegal wagon track connecting this Paradise with 
the outer world. Supplies and visitors are hauled 
* over this apology for a road, illegally slashed 
through the forest of a non-resident homesteader. 
She will be perfectly justified in closing it to us so 
soon as she learns of the trespassing. Probably 
Collie remains at home during our absences, for he 
always is at the gate when we return, welcoming us 
with joyous barks and tail-waggings. Then he pro- 
ceeds with us to the shack, dancing along in advance, 
a smiling face turned toward us, and progressing 
solely on his hind legs. 

Because Seton Postley had written that he would 
arrive some time within a fortnight, for the week 
after receiving that letter I continued my practice 
of going for a long ramble. Scarcely had I returned 
home from one of these excursions on the afternoon 


56 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


of the sixth day following the announcement of Se- 
ton’s coming, and had begun to make preparations 
for tea, than Collie, barking excitedly, rushed to- 
ward the bar-gate. Such behavior on the dog’s part 
is an unfailing sign of approaching visitors, and a 
few moments later a high phaeton, rocking like a 
ship in a storm, was seen navigating the wagon track. 
Behind the heads of the two brown cayuses drawing 
the vehicle, appeared the shock of white hair thatch- 
ing the head of Mr. John Tanner, who habitually 
goes hatless and generally coatless. A long, white 
beard lends the pioneer a patriarchal appearance 
oddly at variance with his black cotton shirt and the 
white “galluses,” which draw his trousers far above 
the normal waist line. He innocently goes in for 
Empire effects. At one side of our sturdy old friend 
sat Philip Trevor, otherwise Collie’s “bone man,” 
and at the other side a blond youth of assured, yet 
modest bearing. Seton Postley had arrived at Mira- 
Monte. No psychic sense told me that before six 
months had passed I would be glad to see him leav- 
ing it. 

Prior to Seton’s arrival we had often wondered 
how he was to be amused, but he solved that problem 
for himself by doing whatever he was impelled to do 
and without confiding his plans to anyone. Shortly 
after depositing his luggage in the room occupied 
by Richard and whatever men visit us, Seton re- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 57 

marked that he would take a look about the place. 
As Mr. Tanner was chatting in his customarily 
unique fashion, while drinking a cup of tea, I merely 
noticed that the Princetonian paused for a moment 
near the horses which were tied to an oak tree close 
to the house, and then forgot all about him until just 
before dinner when Philip Trevor, who had been in- 
dustriously plying Collie with bones, asked what had 
become of our guest. 

“He went to look about the place almost as soon as 
he arrived,” I replied. 

“That was two hours ago and now it is almost 
dark,” said Philip Trevor. 

“Someone should have warned him against going 
beyond the yard !” I exclaimed, forgetting that in an 
eighty-acre yard, most of it heavily wooded, a 
stranger might readily get lost. “Seton ! Seton !” 

“Seton! Seton!” echoed Philip Trevor, greatly 
worried lest the lad, lured by the fascinations of the 
primeval forest, had wandered beyond sound of our 
voices. “Perhaps he’s lost his bearings, tried to fol- 
low a cattle trail, and wandered across the canyon,” 
he added in distressed tones. “He’s only a boy.” 

Two minutes later, and, greatly to our relief, 
Seton came running up the trail from the lower well. 
In one hand he held a long stick equipped with a 
horsehair lasso. “I’ve been at the brushpile on the 
edge of the woods catching lizards,” he explained 


58 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


gleefully, at the same time taking from his coat- 
pocket several of the reptiles. “Where’s the fighting 
cat that you’ve been bragging about in your letters, 
April Godmother? These are for her. Why! I 
thought she’d have a head as big as this,” he added, 
the while making a huge ball of his two hands and 
viewing with disappointment the rather diminutive 
cranium of Pussy Mother, who had hastened forward 
in response to a call, which she hoped meant an in- 
vitation to dine. “She don’t look like a fighter, but 
I guess she’s all right.” He stroked the cat’s thin 
sides and the tw r o promptly became friends. But 
Seton made her earn her feast of lizards by giving 
the unfortunate prisoners a short start on the edge 
of the clearing, and then treacherously freeing their 
enemy. 

“Something wrong with the pipes in here, April 
Godmother !” called out Seton later that evening 
from the bathroom, where, in good faith, he had gone 
for a plunge. He ultimately removed the grime of 
his day’s journey with a quart of warm water from 
the tank of the kitchen range. 

Not only is Seton Postley a thoroughly satisfac- 
tory guest, but he is a self-appointed butler and par- 
lor maid as well. He never forgets to smoothly lay 
the cloth for a meal, and, after it is over with, to 
sweep the floor of the living-room, dry the dishes and 
put them on the shelves in the lean-to kitchen. From 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 59 


the beginning Collie expressed cordial approval of 
this blond-haired, blue-eyed lad, whose weight is so 
out of proportion to his five feet, eleven inches of 
stature that he looks inordinately thin, and gives 
the impression of a delicacy of physique which is be- 
lied by his athletic prowess. While the dog’s ad- 
vances are kindly received, it is evident that Seton’s 
affections center upon Pussy Mother. He agrees 
with Richard that her offspring are a great nuisance 
and seem always to be under foot. These five kit- 
tens, the third family which she has supplied, are as 
selfish, lazy, altogether worthless as were those that 
preceded them. And, according to her custom, Pussy 
is slavishly devoted. We would like to be rid of 
the quintette, but, having weakly put off their fatal 
day, have now ceased to talk about drowning them. 
The little creatures regard us expectantly with 
bright eyes and an air of confidence in our friendli- 
ness, which is wholly misplaced. Little do they dream 
that we are merely awaiting an opportunity to give 
them away. 

On the evening after his arrival, Seton announced 
his intention to go fishing every day. He changed his 
mind after realizing that to reach the Big Klickitat’s 
brink he must descend a razor-back bluff, which is 
not a nice thing to travel over, although that means 
of getting down to the river is preferable to descend- 
ing fifteen hundred feet of sheer cliff. Seton is an 


60 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


expert shot, and to go out with him greatly enter- 
tains Collie, who likes nothing better than to raise 
a flock of partridge and send them scurrying sky- 
ward. In the very early morning these birds may be 
potted from the back window of the shack, as they 
approach in search of food — if Collie is not about. 
That he does wander away from the ranch between 
twilight and dawn is evidenced by the bits of worn- 
out harness and straps, which we find about the place. 
He necessarily picks these things up near the stables 
of our neighbors, since we have never acquired horses 
because of not being certain of having sufficient water 
for them; also because, to date, it has been possible 
to employ a plowman owning a team. 

Although Seton may be able to endure our Spar- 
tan economies in regard to water, he certainly will 
not be able to stand the monotony of our menus un- 
less he differs radically from previous guests, several 
of whom came here with the avowed intention of stop- 
ping for a month and departed within the week. 
Moreover, I am “a cook inspired by the Devil,” de- 
clares Richard, who, having roughed it in a score of 
heathenish lands, is an authority on bad cooking. 
My culinary failures greatly amuse him, but, were 
his sense of humor invalided as well as his muscles, he 
would long since have deserted this wilderness lodge. 
Most of our guests begin their visit by going into 
raptures over the invigorating air, the magnificent 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 61 


scenery and the restful solitude of what they are 
pleased to term “this corner of the world.” Why 
they term it a corner is hard to imagine since no- 
where about it is there anything so unlovely as an 
angle. These enthusiasts soon become so boring to 
listen to that it is fortunate they soon weary of a 
place certain to pall upon anyone whose happiness 
depends upon a regular supply of fresh vegetables, 
fruit and meat. The first day after arriving, the 
visitors appear to really enjoy a breakfast of boiled 
cereal and tinned cream, a luncheon of potatoes and 
smoked beef, and a dinner of baked beans and coffee. 
When these menus have been repeated the next day 
and on one following it, the guests suddenly remem- 
ber urgent business or invent some equally flimsy 
excuse. By that time, however, we have become so 
utterly wearied of persons who cannot entertain 
themselves for five consecutive minutes, that were 
they to knock us down and make their adieux during 
our succeeding period of unconsciousness, we should 
regard the procedure as exceedingly diplomatic and 
an evidence of superior breeding. 

Usually we accompany each one of these depart- 
ing pilgrims to the boat-landing, and stake them to 
a dinner at the Baldwin hotel, thus laying the final 
straw upon their load of Klickitat miseries. The 
menu at the hostelry is longer than any of those 
served here, but the ingredients of the dishes are dark 


62 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


mysteries and swarms of flies dispute possession of 
them. 

Seton has already tasted the joys of the Hotel 
Baldwin, because his first fortnight in Klickitat was 
broken by a trip to Portland with Richard. In 
order to have plenty of time for resting during the 
long and rough walk to the village, where they were 
to board a west-bound Columbia river steamer, they 
started soon after breakfast. I walked with them 
to the edge of the west “eighty” — a fenced-in stretch 
of heavily wooded land — and then returned to the 
home “forty.” For the first time since coming here I 
was to stay absolutely alone, and on my homeward 
way, I recalled, with some amusement, Richard’s final 
instruction: “There isn’t the slightest danger — un- 
less you set the shack on fire; nor a probability of 
anyone coming to the ranch at night ” 

“Don’t I know that? Think of the months and 
months that Seldie and I were here before you 
came !” 

“But you may as well keep the revolver beside your 
bed,” he continued, ignoring my interruption. “It 
will give you confidence in case you imagine that 
someone is prowling about the shack. And the in- 
stant he tries to break in a door — shoot straight 
through it !” 

Long before I had reached the bar-gate, I could 
hear Collie howling mournfully, as he always does 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 6B 

when he fancies that he has been prematurely de- 
serted as on that morning when the entire household, 
each member of it carrying a bundle, had departed 
by a rarely used trail. To his canine intelligence 
that procedure spells permanent desertion. We two 
spent the remainder of that day in the tea house, a 
small, open-sided tent, draped with gaily striped 
East Indian cotton rugs — the sort sold in the Orient 
for a few cents — set up in a grove opposite to the 
rose-bordered vegetable garden. As the tea-house 
faces the west and Mt. Hood, it is our favorite re- 
treat at twilight. That evening Collie and I lingered 
there until the glow had wholly faded from behind 
the western hills. 

To be alone in a shack on a hilltop fully a 
mile from the nearest neighbor is an odd sensation 
for a city-bred woman. It was not a fear-inspiring 
one, as no stranger had ever come to the ranch at 
night. Moreover, the shack is so far from the main 
road that anyone not familiar with the forest trails 
leading to it would scarcely be able to follow one of 
them after darkness had fairly set in. For several 
hours after supper, Collie dozed contentedly at my 
feet, the while I read a book about farming, which 
seems to me to be an inexhaustible subject since I 
myself have become a farmerette. Certainly oppor- 
tunities to acquire a store of valuable knowledge 
about fruit-growing are within the reach of all per- 


64 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


sons interested in the business. The Department of 
Agriculture at Washington, D. C., and the State 
Colleges, supply, on request, free bulletins on all 
departments of farm work. There are also many 
splendid books published on horticulture: these, in 
themselves, would seem to be complete guides to suc- 
cess. Of course, the more an orchardist knows about 
agriculture the more likely she — and he — is to suc- 
ceed, but it is better to imitate the methods of suc- 
cessful fruit-growers in the section where one is lo- 
cated than to try to follow the ideas which were, more 
or less, suitable in other localities. 

My agricultural education was suddenly inter- 
rupted by Collie, who awakened, sprang up, stationed 
himself before the front door, and barked sharply. 
Doubtless, his keen ears had heard some sound from 
without, but, as I could not hear any footsteps, I 
opened the door. Instantly springing out, the dog 
plunged into the darkness, concealing the landscape 
as completely as though a black velvet curtain had 
been let down to earth from heaven. As I was about 
to close the door, a flame, leaping up in the west, 
momentarily grew larger, showing that a fire burned 
on the opposite side of the canyon. At first I as- 
sumed that a forest conflagration was beginning, 
then reason suggested that a settler, taking advan- 
tage of a windless evening, was burning brush, albeit 
before the legal time, which is after the autumn rains. 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 65 


From a window, I watched while the fire cast wierd 
shadows against the sky. Soon after midnight the 
flames began to flicker, then fading, finally disap- 
peared. Shortly afterward Collie scratched at the 
door. He was promptly admitted. I preferred to 
have him inside of the shack, as he would be certain 
to bark furiously were he to hear a noise, whereas, 
if allowed outside, he might be quieted by a word or a 
caress, for he is unsuspicious of all strangers and 
readily makes friends with them. Possibly this un- 
watchmanlike quality is due to his isolated life. 
Richard maintains that it is because the various 
gangs of Italians and Swedes, who have worked about 
this place, “made fools of themselves over the dog 
solely because of his good looks.” Certain it is that 
as a watcher, Collie is a failure. But his trust in 
human nature and his readiness to forgive injuries 
are a reproach to the world-worn and the cynical. 

After a final inspection of the little house and a 
testing of the catches securing its eight windows, I 
locked Collie in the lean-to, and, having placed 
matches and the revolver within reach, extinguished 
the candles and was soon asleep. The sun was high 
when I awoke. Collie was barking near the kitchen 
door in his eagerness to get out of the house and greet 
Mr. Barney, who had brought to me two pails of 
water from the lower well. 

“When I see that fire in the night, I was for start- 


66 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


ing over here,” said the foreman. “Then I remem- 
bered that Dutchey (a Hollander), across the can- 
yon, spoke last week of burning brush the first still 
evenin’. It’s like you’d been scared if you’d heard 
anyone cornin’ in the night.” 

While Mr. Barney was in the storeroom looking 
for a tool, the Indian, whose horses Collie had un- 
consciously driven in the right direction, appeared 
at the bar-gate. Perched before him on the cayuse 
was the little lad who had taken Collie’s part on the 
occasion of their first encounter. As the father be- 
gan to explain that his son had come to see the white 
squaw’s yellow dog, the little fellow held up a small, 
brown hand badly lacerated by recent contact with 
barbed-wire fencing. After the wounds had been 
bathed with peroxide of hydrogen, soothed with sweet 
oil, and bound with lint, little Jim was made happy 
by the gift of one of the kittens. The treasure was 
handed him by Mr. Barney, who remarked to me 
sotto voce: “That’s one of them young devils out 
of the way of our feet when we’re working about the 
upper well.” After the two Jims had departed — the 
mite promising to take good care of the kitten and 
to soon repeat his visit — Mr. Barney, who has a ge- 
nius for learning all that there is to know about our 
neighbors, said that little Jim’s mother is Squaw 
Sally, who recently left home after a quarrel with 
her brave. “ ’Twarn’t big Jim’s fault. He ain’t no 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 67 


common Injun. He treated his wife good, but her 
folks was always cornin’ to visit them. If they’d 
stayed to home, Jimmy an’ Sally’d got along fine. 
You see how him an’ that kid’s stuck to each other. 
They’re bein’ did for now by Big Jim’s sister, Josie 
Skookem, a widow squaw, an’ her twelve-year-old 
girl. The hull of ’em lives on that ranch jest this 
side of Baldwin.” 

“Too bad they don’t live nearer to this place. 
They would be interesting neighbors.” 

Mr. Barney frankly expressed his amazement: 
“Hankerin’ for Injun society an’ never visitin’ none 
of your white neighbors ! Anyone would think you’d 
like civilized folks best, bein’ as you was raised among 
’em.” 

“A good reason for wanting to cultivate aborig- 
ines,” I retorted, to the foreman’s still greater be- 
wilderment. 


CHAPTER VII 


The two days following that on which Little Jim 
made his call here were devoted to cleaning the shack, 
shifting about its furniture, polishing the sconces 
and other brasses, and hanging fresh window cur- 
tains. This activity was a fortunate impulse upon 
which I congratulated myself on the afternoon of the 
third day, when a series of frantic barks from the di- 
rection of the bar-gate announced visitors. Collie was 
expressing his welcome by jumping about Philip Tre- 
vor and Seton Postley, who were trying to swing back 
the heavy bars without hitting him. In Mr. Tanner’s 
hack, as a two-seated, coverless vehicle is termed 
hereabout, sat Mrs. Margery Trevor. Beside her 
was Richard. He was laughing at the dog’s antics, 
albeit feeling a bit miffed because some of the demon- 
strations of delight were not directed toward himself. 
The outfit’s driver, a thirteen-year-old lad, returned 
my “Hello, Sonny!” with a grave dignity that was 
disconcerting. The personality of this lad was our 
chief topic of conversation during that evening. 
This was due, in part, to the fact that he was natur- 
ally bright, but more particularly because, despite 
68 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 69 

his tender age, he had been supporting himself for 
several years. Throughout the drive from the boat- 
landing, his four passengers had been greatly enter- 
tained by his comments upon Baldwin, its leading 
citizens, its surrounding country, and, incidentally, 
his own parents. These latter he described as a 
“couple of old chickens, always scratching around, 
and never doing anything.” The Trevors were so 
impressed by the little man’s intelligence that they 
wanted to help him to get an education by boarding 
and lodging him at their home in Portland, the while 
he attended a public school. Seton offered to sup- 
ply the necessary clothing and books. Two days 
later, however, when Philip Trevor, on his return 
trip, searched Baldwin for the lad, he could only 
learn that he had gone away. His further life will, 
doubtless, ever remain shrouded in mystery so far as 
we at Mira-Monte are concerned. It was during this 
visit to Baldwin, whither I escorted Philip Trevor, 
that I first saw Josie Skookem, sister and aunt, re- 
spectively, of the two Jims, and acknowledged leader 
of Klickitat aboriginal society. Our friendship be- 
gan with a violent aversion on the part of the squaw. 
I had carried my kodak into the village in the hope 
of snapping any Indians who might be loitering 
thereabout, and, unaware of their prejudice against 
being photographed, innocently tried to get a pic- 
ture of Josie, as she was alighting from her cayuse 


70 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


under the shade of a tree. Simultaneously, she 
caught sight of me, and, before I could get a second 
shot, had darted behind the tree, whose slender trunk 
failed to conceal her substantial, brightly dressed 
figure. After several moments she again came into 
full view, this time armed with a stout stick, which 
she waved in so threatening a manner as she pattered 
past me, the while scowling and grunting wrathfully, 
that she instantly won my respect. She walked into 
the store, came out again, and then circled its ex- 
terior, as though in search of someone. Finally she 
turned down a side street — so-called — leading to the 
Columbia. I had just regained sufficient confidence 
to seat myself upon the edge of the store’s veranda, 
when the patter of moccasined feet impelled me to 
spring up and right about face, having no fancy for 
being attacked from the rear. My propitiatory smile 
and word were received with a scowl by Josie, as she 
hastened toward Mr. Tanner, who had just emerged 
from a shack a rod or two distant. The two im- 
mediately engaged in an animated conversation, and, 
surmising that it concerned myself, I joined them. 
After formally introducing me to the squaw, Mr. 
Tanner said: “Now, Josie, you mustn’t be mad with 
this woman ; she’s my friend, I’m your friend, so you 
and she must be friends.” 

“I be your friend,” promised Josie, taking my hand 
after a moment of hesitancy, “but no like ’um picter.” 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 71 


“This white woman won’t try again to take your 
picture, Josie,” promised the old trader. Where- 
upon, the squaw smiled contentedly, and began to 
chat volubly in Chinook, occasionally glancing to- 
ward me and using a word from her limited English 
vocabulary in polite effort to include me in the con- 
versation. She managed to explain to me that Silver 
Hair, as she calls Mr. Tanner, is her good friend; 
that he trusts her for coffee, flour, sugar and tea 
when times are hard. She finally accepted an invi- 
tation to come and see me some time, and then said 
good-bye. As Josie mounted her cayuse and turned 
it homeward, Mr. Tanner remarked: “That squaw’s 
a born Socialist. When she’s in a talking humor, as 
she is once in a blue moon, her ideas on the subject 
are surprisin’. An’ they’re logical, too. She’s a 
natural leader an’ can influence any of her own peo- 
ple. For instance, two or three squaws will agree 
to do a certain amount of work for a settler, but if 
Josie hears about it an’ don’t approve, she’ll talk to 
them for a while, and they’ll do precisely as she says.” 

Josie is the first wife of a chief commonly known 
to the white members of the region as Skookem. But 
she does not reside upon his ranch, preferring, for 
some reason best known to herself, to live independ- 
ently and to support her twelve-year-old daughter. 
It may safely be assumed that she is not the sort of 
person to tamely submit to the dictation of anyone ; 


72 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


as the chief is an aborigine of decided opinions and 
a forceful way of expressing them, it is easy to 
understand how seriously he and Josie would dis- 
agree. Mr. Tanner, who remembers Josie as a child, 
says that she is now barely thirty-five years of age. 
Because of her semi-withered features and the deep 
lines about her mouth and eyes, a stranger would put 
sixty summers and winters to her discredit — were 
that stranger a woman. This aged appearance of a 
comparatively youthful squaw is ascribed by the old 
pioneer to a life of hardship. It seems to me that in 
her semi-civilized state, conditions must be much 
easier for Josie than they were for her wholly un- 
civilized grandmothers who probably suffered untold 
hardships when fish and game were scarce, and there 
were no white neighbors from whom to borrow or beg 
food — synonymous terms in this instance. 

Josie’s objection to having her picture taken, Mr. 
Tanner explained, is one commonly shared by the 
older generation of Indians. They have a horror of 
being photographed because filled with the supersti- 
tion that the possessor of the likeness of any indi- 
vidual gives that possessor a mysterious power over 
the person photographed. 

Because of the dishonorable tricks to which both 
professional and amateur photographers resort, most 
Indians are quick to detect a camera, and the older 
and half-civilized ones always fiercely resent any at- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 78 


tempts which a snapshot artist may make to steal 
upon them unaware. On the other hand, many of the 
partly educated young squaws — the government 
wards taken from the Reservations, taught the three 
R’s and introduced to hats and corsets by their well- 
meaning but misguided guardians — are eager to earn 
money by posing. Many pictures are publicly of- 
fered of Sally, wife of Indian Jim. She has been 
taken in a variety of poses. The most famous of 
these is called “The Indian Madonna,” and supposed 
• — by a long stretch of the imagination — to resemble 
Raphael’s “Virgin and Child.” But no halo sur- 
rounds the head of Sally, and Little Jim, an infant 
at the time, was so swathed in blankets that only his 
broad, brown face can be seen. All of the Klickitat 
squaws part their straight, black locks in Madonna 
fashion. A leading photographer at The Dalles con- 
siders this a remarkable coincidence, whereas it is the 
position in which the hair naturally falls of its own 
weight, at either side of the head. With a little ef- 
fort, that part is more clearly defined. But, unlike 
that of the Madonna, the crown, back and sides of 
the aboriginal Klickitat woman’s head is nearly al- 
ways covered with a kerchief, brought forward and 
knotted under the chin. For this purpose only the 
brightest hues are popular. Equally vivid colors are 
demanded for the calico frocks, which the squaws 
make for themselves. Klickitat women, unlike their 


74 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

civilized sisters, have not, as yet, succumbed to the 
black art of the sweat-shop manufacturers. Aside 
from their blankets and kerchiefs, all of their wear- 
ing apparel is home-made. There are clean and 
dirty people among the Indians, just as there are 
among all other races. Many of the squaws wash 
themselves and their clothes as frequently and as 
thoroughly as do the neatest of their Caucasian 
neighbors. 

The year round, no matter how high the mercury 
may soar, the squaws muffle themselves in blankets. 
Only the quite young girls expose the throat or go 
with head uncovered. So soon as a maiden begins to 
develop womanly curves, her figure is so completely 
disguised by her blankets that one feels, without 
being told, how dreadfully shocked are the aborigines 
at sight of the clinging draperies of the white man’s 
squaw. I had tried to secure Josie Skookem’s pic- 
ture as an illustration for a magazine article. With 
or without the desired illustration, the article must 
be finished and forwarded. The money to be paid 
for it is sorely needed to bolster a depleted bank 
account. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Margery Trevor stopped with us for a month 
and, during the first week of her stay, we encountered 
Nan, the Balker. One afternoon, Percy Nelson, who 
had been engaged as our charioteer, drove up to the 
door a long-legged, hungry-looking mare with spa- 
cious bald spots distributed unevenly over a coat of 
dark sorrel. As this animal stood under our roof- 
tree, she appeared so languid, world-weary and weak, 
that I felt sure Margery Trevor would enjoy the af- 
ternoon’s drive, since any horse showing indications 
of spirit greatly alarms her. To our amazement, 
Nan started off at a brisk gallop that shook the rick- 
ety hack and scattered clouds of dust upon us. 

“Why do you make the poor creature go so fast 
this warm day, Percy ?” asked Margery, endeavoring 
to conceal her fright under solicitude for the animal. 

“I don’t make her do anything. That’s the way 
she always does,” replied Percy. “It seems like she 
just can’t walk. She either runs or stands still.” 
To run or rest each alternate five minutes was Nan’s 
programme for that afternoon. She was perspiring 
freely and breathing laboriously, and, although given 

75 


76 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


every encouragement to proceed at a leisurely pace, 
persisted in galloping between intervals of resting. 
Nevertheless, in the course of three hours we man- 
aged to travel about twelve miles. Our objective 
point was the oldest homestead hereabout. It had 
been taken up by a Portuguese hermit who, instead 
of posing or sulking after the manner of his kind, 
had busied himself with the clearing of his land and 
in planting large vineyards as well as orchards of 
apples, peaches and plums. Because of the recent 
death of the industrious hermit, the homestead had 
come into the market. Therefore, Seton Postley, 
who knows nothing whatever about vineyards, or- 
chards and kindred agricultural enterprises, went to 
inspect the place in the interest of a fellow Prince- 
tonian, who thinks he yearns for the simple life of 
the wilderness, and has sufficient fortune to gratify 
any Tom-fool whim. If our young guest’s class-mate 
buys the hermit’s place he need never worry about 
wells. The Portuguese, more wise than I, followed 
the course of de Petrio Canyon until he came upon a 
well-watered tract of tillable land. This valuable 
ranch is temporarily occupied by the “Swede” Boye- 
sen, so dubbed to distinguish them from several other 
neighbors of the same name. While Mrs. “Swede” 
Boyesen is built upon heroic lines, her size is a matter 
of bone rather than of flesh. When Percy presented 
Us to her she was strolling about the grounds with 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 77 

bare feet. To level any question in our minds, she 
tranquilly explained that she had removed her shoes 
because they hurt her and in quite as casual a manner 
as she might have said that she had removed her hat 
because the afternoon was warm. She seemed not to 
regard an absence of footgear as remarkable, and her 
perfect self-possession under the circumstances filled 
me with envy. 

Mrs. “Swede” Boyesen’s two younger daughters 
were equally informal of manner. When they came 
forward, their long, thick, dark brown locks were wet 
and hanging about their sturdy shoulders, because 
they “had just begun to wash their hair” when we 
drove into the yard. The sight of these two plump, 
dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked girls enlightened us as to the 
reason for Percy’s enthusiasm about the deceased 
hermit’s ranch, especially after he remarked that the 
Boyesen girls are accomplished dancers and always 
in demand as partners of Saturday evenings. These 
weekly functions are well attended, because here class 
distinctions are not strictly observed. The man-ser- 
vant may not only aspire to lead the dance with his 
master’s daughter, but he may escort her to and from 
the scene of the festivity. In a modest way, these 
daughters of the Boyesens are heiresses, as their 
parents, by dint of unceasing labor and economy, 
have accumulated considerable money. Despite this 
well-known prosperity, the two older boys of the 


78 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


family are employed as ordinary laborers at a saw- 
mill, where their elder sister officiates as cook for a 
weekly wage of four dollars, four “bits.” 

When the chatelaine of the deceased hermit’s ranch 
had taken us through the orchards, vineyards and 
gardens, she led the way to the front veranda of the 
house, where were spread to dry a collection of bear 
and coyote pelts, stripped from animals trapped by 
herself in de Petrio Canyon during last winter. Hav- 
ing explained that these skins were thoroughly cured 
and for sale, she seemed greatly disapponted that 
we did not take advantage of the delicately ex- 
pressed hint. Her disappointment was pardonable 
since we had been so indiscreet as to enthusiastically 
voice admiration of the furs, notably of one once 
worn by a young coyote. So soft, fine and silvery 
was that pelt that it might — in some circles — ven- 
ture to masquerade as a silver fox. 

The route selected by Percy for our return jour- 
ney took us past the site of a burned saw-mill which 
had stood flush with the road. The spot is now 
apparently a meeting place for the cattle of the 
entire county. Never before had I seen so large an 
assemblage of unattended cows loafing on a high- 
way. All were complacently chewing their cuds and 
some of them were so deliberate about moving that 
Nan had to be halted in her temporarily rapid ca- 
reer while Seton alighted and drove them aside. 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 79 

Otherwise they would likely have been run over, our 
chariot wrecked and ourselves sued for damages. 
Soon afterward we came upon a collection of dark 
red buildings belonging to the homestead of Mr. 
Montmorenci Jones, a retired Thespian who may 
have been a star in the theatrical firmament, as 
Percy asserts that he was, but who certainly does 
not shine as a road-builder, judging from the work 
done on the new public highway passing his prop- 
erty. It was not accepted by the county road com- 
missioners because of the number of stones and oak 
roots which were covered with earth instead of being 
removed with axe, pick and shovel, aided by hard 
manual labor. But Mr. Jones has other interests 
than building roads and developing orchards. He 
deals largely in real estate and is an agent for 
homesteaders who, having proved up, wish to sell a 
portion or all of their property. It was through 
his efforts that Seldie disposed of her first “forty.” 
According to Percy, Mr. Montmorenci Jones made 
so shrewd a bargain with the purchasers that he 
acquired title to ten of the acres in addition to the 
usual five per cent commission collected from Sel- 
die, who only recently heard the full particulars of 
the deal. Whereupon she sought out her shrewd 
agent, expressed her opinion of him in unmeasured 
terms and took her business out of his hands. The 
others laughed at Percy’s recital of this tale of 


80 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


trickery, but my sympathy is entirely with Seldie. 
Two women who have lived together in a tent and 
then in a tiny shack for many, many months are 
certain to part bitter enemies or firm friends. Sel- 
die and I are friends. And because neither one of 
us is popular with the women of this region, we must 
also be cranks. 

From the rejected stretch of new road, Percy 
turned into a thick forest which is crossed by a 
wagon track so narrow and so rough that it is never 
used in winter and but rarely in summer. Half way 
through this stretch of woods a one-room shack 
stands close to the road. The little dwelling is fast 
falling into ruins, and weeds block the trail to its 
narrow door. It was once the home of a widow who 
became insane from living there alone for nearly five 
years. Finally it became necessary to transfer her 
to an asylum. There she soon afterward died, but 
not before the government had granted her title to 
the quarter section claim. During a lucid interval, 
she executed a will bequeathing equal shares of her 
estate to Mr. Montmorenci Jones and another neigh- 
bor w r ho had been kind to her while she lived in Klick- 
itat. This legend proves that the virtue of charity 
may be richly rewarded even in a wilderness, since 
the land bequeathed by the late homesteader is now 
worth fifty dollars an acre. 

“Poor soul !” sighed sympathetic Margery Trevor. 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 81 

a The loneliness here must have been terrible !” 

“There wasn’t no excuse for her going crazy from 
loneliness in this neighborhood where there’s so many 
nice men,” retorted Percy, who, doubtless, classes 
himself as one of the nice men instead of as an ex- 
ceedingly attractive boy. 

As a matter of fact, the deceased homesteader 
might have retained her wits as well as her widowed 
state had she built her shack close to the line of any 
one of four adjoining properties. The woman home- 
steading a property in this region has little to fear. 
The coyotes, as elsewhere, are cowards ; the few deer 
are harmless ; the cougar and bear retreat as civili- 
zation advances ; the Indians are law-abiding and the 
white men, willing to carve a home from the wilder- 
ness, are nothing if not chivalrous. Infinitely pref- 
erable to the dauntless Seldie’s manner of living alone 
for five years is the plan of four women who have set- 
tled upon as many adjoining quarter .sections, built 
a common living room at the intersecting corners of 
the several properties, and opening from it four 
shacks, each ten by fourteen feet. Thus does each 
settler obey the law requiring her to sleep on her 
own land every night for five years. It frequently 
happens, however, that a homesteader is granted 
leave of absence in order that he or she may go else- 
where to earn enough money to maintain existence, 
and to make the required improvements upon the 


82 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


holding. In addition to having each other’s society 
and a certain sense of protection, these four women 
homesteaders are minimizing the cost of living, of 
digging a well and of hauling supplies from Bald- 
win. With the square mile of range jointly be- 
longing to them they are profitably running cattle, 
and, until recently, had the privilege of letting their 
cows roam over a portion of Caleb Loring’s quarter 
section. This holding has, of late, been roughly 
fenced in, and upon its eastern line is posted a sign 
warning all persons from crossing the property under 
penalty of a trespass prosecution. The notice ob- 
viously is intended for our “Mike,” as that route is 
the short-cut to his work on our upper well. The 
Italian laborer, casually christened “Mike” by an 
Irish railway foreman, laughed scornfully when the 
notice was translated to him and there and then swore 
a sacrilegious oath to trespass daily. There is no 
danger that the Italian will ever encounter Loring, 
who discreetly keeps out of his way. Although of 
amiable disposition, I fear that Mike may, some day, 
discipline Loring simply for the sake of relieving the 
deadly monotony of his life here. Just now none of 
his countrymen are employed near by and even had 
he a horse to carry him to the scenes of the regular 
Saturday night dances, he has not sufficient English 
to make himself intelligible to the young women whom 
he would meet at them. We express our ideas to 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 83 


him in a weird mixture of Spanish, French and Latin, 
supplemented by signs, which he politely endeavors 
to comprehend. We privately believe that the signs 
are the most intelligible portion of our discourse. 

Because of Mike’s phenomenal strength, he is 
greatly admired by women, notably by Angelina, a 
dark-eyed, vivacious coquette living with her parents, 
who are of the prosperous Italian colony at The 
Dalles. Whenever he makes an appearance at this 
Columbia river metropolis, its tough citizens are 
careful to treat him with respect, as it is a matter 
of common knowledge that during one visit there, he 
cleared out a crowded saloon by literally throwing all 
of its patrons into the street. Mike’s visits to The 
Dalles occur once a month and in the course of 
twenty-four hours of reckless merriment he rids him- 
self of twenty-six days’ earnings. 

“At twenty-three years old, it’s time for that 
Dago, Mike, to quit his foolin’ and be gettin’ some- 
thin’ ahead,” severely remarks Mr. Barney, who, 
from biographical accounts furnished by himself, led 
a glad, bad life previous to the thirtieth anniversary 
of his birth. On that memorable day he encoun- 
tered his Beatrix in the dining-room of a North Da- 
kota hotel, where she officiated as waitress, and set- 
tled down as a Benedick. 

Whenever disposed to pity myself because of hav- 
ing to cook three meals each day and to keep four 


84 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


rooms swept and dusted — a surprising amount of 
dust blows into the shack through its wire-screened 
windows and doors — I think of Mrs. Barney. She 
has four children, under nine years of age, and in 
order that the two elder ones may attend school 
three miles distant by the shortest trails, she escorts 
them there five mornings of the week. At the same 
time she leads a three-year-old daughter with one 
hand and on the other arm carries the baby. She 
dare not leave the younger children alone at home. 
This trip is repeated at four o’clock, making a 
twelve-mile walk in addition to doing the cooking, 
washing and sewing for six persons. Incidentally, 
she attends to the poultry, pigs and cow, helps with 
the planting and does a part of our washing and bak- 
ing. Because the Barneys’ shallow water hole has 
recently given out, all of the laundering must now 
be accomplished at the little homestead occupied by 
the large gang of Italian laborers who cleared the 
land for my orchard. Richard promptly realized 
that the little holding would be a good investment, 
and purchased it with the idea of some time develop- 
ing a portion of the land. We have named the 
place Fleitmanhurst in honor of its original home- 
steader and of the name of a journal that she ar- 
dently admires. The shack faces a fenced-in clearing, 
bare of trees, shrubs or verdure. At its rear, patches 
of grass struggle valiantly for existence, also several 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 85 

clumps of bushes and a few trees which escaped the 
axe. This is truly amazing, as the pioneer usually 
cuts down everything within five hundred feet of the 
dwelling, which, in consequence, is wind-swept in win- 
ter and gets the hottest rays of the sun, as well as 
swarms of flies, throughout the summer. 

Near the rear door of Fleitmanhurst, a deep well 
of clear, cool water is shaded by a cluster of willows. 
Close to these trees is a partially broken-down canvas 
cot whereon the Barneys’ younger children nap while 
in the adjoining house their mother rubs, wrings 
and rinses garments during several days of each 
week. She interrupts herself only at noontime for 
long enough to cook dinner on a decrepit range in 
the shack’s living-room, and again at four o’clock 
when the elder children must be escorted from school. 

At sunset the Barneys return to their mile-distant 
home, our foreman wheeling a barrow loaded with 
rough-dried clothes and four water-filled kerosene 
cans, the mother carrying the baby and the other 
children following in Indian file. They walk through 
a wilderness carpeted with innumerable unfamiliar 
blooms that have somehow survived the drought now 
making the life of the settlers here extra trying. 

Mrs. Barney works harder, and, consequently, 
gossips less than any other woman in this region. 
Since coming here three years ago she has been only 
once to a settlement. That was last week when she 


86 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


went to a hospital at The Dalles with her little boy 
who had blown off one thumb while meddling with 
blasting powder. As the baby has not been weaned, 
she could not be left behind, and, by turns, the par- 
ents carried her over the rough road to Baldwin, a 
journey deemed hard by unencumbered pedestrians. 
For her hard work and indefinite separation from 
her kinsfolk, Mrs. Barney is rewarded with a rough 
shelter, coarse clothing and a monotonous diet. Po- 
tatoes and pork from Sunday to Saturday are va- 
ried by pork and potatoes from Saturday to Sun- 
day. Only occasionally do the Barneys taste vege- 
tables, berries or fresh fish. 

On his way home from the letter boxes the other 
day, Seton left at Fleitmanhurst a salmon which the 
rural mail-carrier said had been sent by a Baldwin 
fisherman to the Barneys who had bespoken from him 
one fresh fish each week. That was the first time the 
professional fishmonger — a desperately poor and 
ragged-looking person — had remembered to fill the 
order to a perfectly responsible customer. The 
salmon weighed ten pounds and was devoured within 
the hour after reaching the frying pan at Fleitman- 
hurst. Not a shred of it remained when the Bar- 
neys, their offspring, Mike (their boarder), and a 
family of kittens had dined. Small wonder, since the 
repast chiefly consisted of fish, and all of the diners 
had been fasting since five o’clock that morning. 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 87 


Luckily, the elder Nelson, who had gone with Seton 
to deliver the fish, did not accept Mrs. Barney’s in- 
vitation to remain and share the feast. Percy’s 
father never attends dances or any other type of 
local social function, but he rarely is missing from 
the group gathered at Letter Box Grove at mail time. 
As he invariably appears there clad in a worsted 
suit of ancient cut, a red silk necktie and a green 
felt hat, we suspect that this toilet is made espe- 
cially for the occasion, because he is supposed to be 
on the look-out for a cook, laundress, housekeeper — 
in short, a wife. Naturally, he dare not run the risk 
of encountering an eligible woman when not looking 
his smartest. The maid we are trying to lure here 
from Portland shall never be allowed to meet the 
mail stage, although Richard insists that such a pro- 
hibition will not prevent the sod widower from meet- 
ing her and ultimately persuading her to accompany 
him to the nearest Justice of the Peace. 

“But, Mr. Van Cortlandt, she may not take a 
shine to Nelson,” argued Mr. John Tanner, who 
was present when the subject was under discussion. 

“Given no rivals and an opportunity to make love, 
any man can persuade any woman to marry him,” 
replied Richard out of the wisdom of experience in 
many lands and among red, white and black women. 

We are fortunate in owning the water rights of a 
well even a half-mile distant, though at the time of 


88 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


acquiring Fleitmanhurst it seemed to me that the 
innumerable little streams and pools on this place 
could not utterly dry up. Nevertheless, they have 
done so, and now we are trying to make sure of hav- 
ing water near at hand by getting one of the two 
wells deepened. The lower well is picturesquely if 
inconviently located amid a clump of willows at the 
bottom of a canyon. It is reached by a trail, which, 
winding through the shrubbery, turns suddenly from 
right to left at intervals, until, abruptly descending, 
it passes a natural bathtub of heroic size which Rich- 
ard has christened “Ford’s Pool,” in honor of a 
friend whom he greatly admires because no woman 
has “roped and bound” him with a wedding ring. 
This bowl-shaped excavation which all the spring was 
filled to its moss-edged brink with crystal clear water, 
would make an ideal bathing tank, as the birds well 
know. 

The lower well is a fascinating objective point for 
a stroll, albeit a bit difficult to climb from even when 
empty-handed. It is a strong man’s feat to carry 
water up that steep path and one that none of the 
laborers covet. The second or upper well is just out- 
side the kitchen door. Mr. Barney, with Mike’s as- 
sistance, is deepening this well, and comes several 
times daily to warn me that there will shortly be a 
blast. He seems to think that my nerves are so sen- 
sitive that the sound and vibration caused by ex- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 89 

ploding powder will reduce me to hysterics. On the 
contrary, I am nervous about Mr. Barney. The 
upper well-hole is now fifty feet deep, and, as he must 
needs be drawn up from its bottom after he has 
lighted the fuse for each blast, any delay on the 
part of the men above ground might result fatally. 
Richard, being my brother and, therefore, forced to 
tolerate my idiotic ideas, laughs at my forebodings 
and says confidently: “I can take care of Barney.” 
His confidence does not reconcile me to the foreman’s 
danger. Were the man to be blown to atoms, Rich- 
ard might be able to put him together again, but not 
so that Mrs. Barney would be satisfied. 

Barney is sure that this is considered one of the 
most promising orchards in this neighborhood be- 
cause w r herever he goes, he hears somebody “knock- 
ing” it on account of its lack of a spring well and a 
legal outlet into the county road. Loring is telling 
our neighbors, -who repeat the remark to Seldie so 
that it may promptly come to us, that never shall 
we have a right-of-way across his property. Seton 
Postley says there is at least one way out of a cul de 
sac . Possibly he knows what he is talking about. 
That is a Postley characteristic. 


CHAPTER IX 


From the hour of her arrival here, Margery 
Trevor talked of her intention of walking down Mul- 
len Hill on her return trip to Portland. She liter- 
ally carried out that threat, although she departed 
in state, enthroned on the back seat of the Nelson 
hack. 

As on the previous occasion, Nan started off at a 
gallop, but when half-way up the first hill, she 
stopped. No verbal urging on the part of Percy and 
Seton could induce her to proceed. Margery would 
not permit them to touch the mare with the whip. 
So we waited ten minutes until the animal voluntarily 
started and trotted rapidly into Letter Box Grove 
where she again halted, this time in the midst of a 
gathering of neighbors who greeted us with derisive 
shouts. There were several prolonged rests before 
we reached the top of Mullen Hill and. the turning 
which discloses the long road, cut like a shelf against 
a bluff descending a sheer thousand feet into de Pe- 
trio Canyon and the Big Klickitat, a wild, turbulent 
stream, which has cut its way through solid rock to 
the Columbia. It is a road to terrify any woman not 
90 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 91 

reared among the mountains and one which most of 
the settlers’ wives and daughters refuse to drive 
down, although the men living hereabout brazenly 
maintain that it is a first-class thoroughfare and 
never has been the scene of a bad accident. I do not 
believe them. They invariably eye one another sig- 
nificantly whenever the subject is broached in the 
presence of a woman, and a badly wrecked wagon, 
lying half-way down the bluff is gradually disinte- 
grating. No wonder that Margery Trevor insisted 
upon alighting from the hack. Nor that I followed 
her example, the while conciliating the boys by prom- 
ising that we would soon be glad to ride again, as the 
day was hot and breezeless. But Margery’s deter- 
mination to lose weight was as firmly grounded as her 
fear of Nan’s balking, and mile after mile we trudged 
over the dusty road, the occupants of the hack regu- 
larly pausing to protest. Seton declared that Mar- 
gery’s shoes were not adapted for the rough going, 
nor her Jegs in training for the exercise, while Percy 
feared that we were overtaxing our strength. So 
frequently was Margery obliged to rest by the way- 
side that it was high noon when we reached a bridge 
spanning the Big Klickitat. Having crossed the 
river, Percy tied Nan’s halter to the rail of a road 
culvert and led us down a steep, winding trail to a 
little pool of clear, cold water, shaded by low-grow- 
ing willows and infested with mosquitoes. Seated 


92 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


upon a convenient log in that sylvan retreat of 
doubtful comfort, we had murdered an army of in- 
sects, as well as almost devoured the contents of the 
luncheon basket when two middle-aged men, cross- 
ing the culvert, paused and leaned over its railing. 
“Here’s a party of campers !” exclaimed the stouter 
of the two strangers. 

“And water!” joyfully added the other, who was 
slender and wiry, and swart as an Indian. Vaguely 
I fancied that I had previously seen him, and taken 
a dislike to his appearance. 

When the two strangers had descended to our al 
fresco dining-room, Percy politely dipped water for 
them with an empty tomato can. The swarthy man 
urged his companion to drink as much of it as he 
could hold, adding the warning: “Clancy, this will be 
your last chance of getting water till you reach Van 
Cortlandt’s place, and there’ll be blamed little of it up 
there, I’m hopin’.” 

Seton and Percy exchanged glances as Margery 
Trevor proffered the remaining sandwiches, which 
the men accepted with a show of reluctance and re- 
marks to the effect that they had not come there to 
eat. The next moment, however, the stouter of the 
two men, spying some canned pineapple, exclaimed: 
“I ain’t seen none of that fruit for years !” and eag- 
erly accepted what was left of it. When he had 
eaten the Hawaiian fruit, he slowly got upon his feet 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 93 


in response to his companion’s reminder that they 
would better be toddling along,” as it was five miles 
to Van Cortlandt’s. 

Margery, Seton and Percy focused their gaze upon 
me, and I addressed the strangers: “We have just 
come from Mira-Monte orchard and can assure you 
that Mr. Van Cortlandt is not at home to-day.” 
Richard had planned to go fishing directly after the 
mail carrier had passed through Letter Box Grove. 

“Hell!” exclaimed the dark-eyed gentleman, and 
then introduced himself : “My name’s Jack Gibbons 
and this here’s” — indicating his companion — “Bill 
Clancy. He’s a sort of a — a — pardner of mine, an’ 
we was goin’ to make the final arrangements about 
borin’ a well on that ranch,” adding hastily and 
glancing covertly at Mr. Clancy: “I see Van Cort- 
landt in Portland a spell or so ago, an’ he agreed 
to have the work done at four dollars a foot.” 

Knowing positively that such an arrangement had 
not been made, our party remained silent, and, after 
a pause, Mr. Gibbons continues: “So long’s Van 
Cortlandt ain’t to home to-day, there ain’t no use in 
us goin’ no further.” His keen glance took in the de- 
tails of our several costumes. Only Margery Trevor 
wore the tailored suit and conventional hat of civili- 
zation; the rest of us were in the garments of the 
sweat shops. “You three is goin’ back there to- 
night?” 


94 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


Seton nodded. 

“Then you can tell him what he’s got to do for 
us.” 

While Margery and Seton exchanged glances and 
smiled covertly at this remark, I replied: “Such a 
message as that would not be satisfactory to Mr. 
Van Cortlandt,” knowing right well that Gibbons’ 
dictatorial manner would be certain to, sooner 
or later, arouse the mighty wrath of Richard. “But 
if you will write a letter definitely stating your low- 
est terms for boring the well and hand it to us this 
afternoon at Baldwin, the mail carrier shall deliver 
Mr. Van Cortlandt’s reply to you to-morrow even- 
ing.” 

“You could just as well tell him what he’s got to do 
for us,” demurred Mr. Gibbons. 

“The proposition must be submitted in writing.” 
My tone was the decided one acquired by long deal- 
ing with office boys of procrastinating habits. 

After a moment of hesitancy, the well-borer agreed 
to state his terms in writing. Mr. Clancy thanked us 
for our hospitality and awkwardly lifted his hat, the 
while Gibbons lounged slowly up the trail. 

When we had followed Percy back to the road, he 
implored Margery and I to get into the hack. Out 
of pity for his evident distress at being seen driving 
into the village while we walked into it, we consented 
to resign ourselves to the ways of Nan, who instantly 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 95 

shied and then balked because we had come upon a 
short stretch of road thickly coated with slag. 
Whereupon Margery and I, screaming lustily, flew as 
though equipped with wings, out of the hack, and, 
relieved of our weight, the mare gaily galloped along, 
leaving us to bruise our shoes upon the rough way. 
The next time that Nan halted, Percy again im- 
plored us, almost with tears in his brown eyes, to 
ride: “When I undertake to drive a pair of ladies to 
Baldwin, I want to drive them there,” he said. 
“What will folks think of me?” 

“They will think things of Nan,” laughed Seton 
who was hugely enjoying the experience. 

Percy’s appeals having again melted Margery’s 
tender heart, we clambered to our seats, and, by sheer 
force of will, remained in them for ten minutes, dur- 
ing wdiich Nan balked, reared, plunged, and shov r ed 
an inclination to back over the edge of the embank- 
ment into the Columbia. In the intervals of these 
alarming antics, we noticed a tent set up amongst 
some tall hemlocks growing on a half-acre flat close 
to the river’s bank. Beneath the detached fly of the 
tent was an oven-equipped oil stove and on a bench 
opposite to it sat the two men whom we had recently 
encountered at the spring. They were enjoying a 
steaming repast served to them by a short and slen- 
der girl with large blue eyes, a small mouth, and a 
mass of brown hair threaded with gold, which 


96 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


gleamed brilliantly as the sunbeams fell athwart her 
head. She was the bride I had seen the evening of 
my arrival at Baldwin three years before, and she 
was looking not a day older than at that time. Seton 
was first of our party to spy this Ganymede : “That’s 
the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen !” he exclaimed. “I’ll 
bet a quarter she’s running an open-air restaurant in 
successful competition to those two fly-infested 
hotels.” 

“I’ll bet you two bits she’s married to one of those 
fellers she’s waitin’ on” hazarded Percy. 

“Nonsense!” Seton’s tone was supremely scorn- 
ful. “Either one of those men might be her father.” 

“No tellin’ what sort of a feller a girl will marry,” 
retorted Percy from the wisdom acquired during six- 
teen years of knocking about the world at the heels 
of a widowed parent of wandering habits. “Now 
what do you think of that?” shaking his whip at the 
drooping Nan as the steamer’s whistle emitted a se- 
ries of shrill shrieks. “I made sure she’d try to back 
into the Columbia when she heard those whistles. An’ 
she’s goin’ to sleep under their racket. She sure is 
some fright of a horse! Just like a woman — doin’ 
the very thing you’d never expect of her.” 

The steamer’s decks were crowded with summer 
tourists who audibly commented upon my khaki suit, 
high boots, and Mexican hat, while Seton presented 
the purser to Margery Trevor and commended her 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 97 


to his care during the trip to Portland. While the 
boat was moving down-stream, Percy and Nan dis- 
appeared, but we found them waiting before the 
larger of the two general stores where the lad had 
gone to purchase a necktie with his fare’s “four-bit” 
tip, and, incidentally, to collect the village news. 
The budget included the information that the pretty 
waitress at the camp near the Columbia was the wife 
of “Jack” Gibbons, the middle-aged well-borer, and 
that the pair customarily live in that manner. No 
doubt this primitive kind of existence is fascinating 
and healthful in summer, but it must have its draw- 
backs during cold or wet weather. 

“That pretty, refined-looking girl does not have as 
comfortable a home as a half-civilized squaw!” ex- 
claimed Seton indignantly. “It’s a wonder she stands 
such treatment !” 

“When a girl loves a feller she’ll stand anything !” 
replied Percy whose knowledge of human nature far 
outstrips that of Seton Postley, his senior by three 
years. “Folks sez that those two — Gibbons and 
Clancy — ain’t pardners at all. Gibbons is tryin’ to 
sell out to Clancy. He got him to come to Klickitat 
by claiming to have two contracts for boring wells — 
one on your ranch and the other at Ed. Frost’s at 
the head of de Petrio Canyon. But Frost’s got only 
a hundred dollars in cash.” 

“I fancy Frost won’t have a well bored right 


98 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


away,” remarked Seton dryly. “Come on over to the 
barber’s shop, Percy, and after we’re through there, 
we’ll be getting home.” 

Seton and Percy had, in turn, occupied the sole 
chair in the tiny barber shop, and, having paid for 
unsatisfactory hair-cuts, returned to the store which 
we chiefly patronize, given Nan more water than she 
deserved, and, having persuaded me to climb into the 
hack, we passed, by slow stages, the railway station, 
post-office, and powder house — the shack where com- 
bustibles are carefully sequestrated — and, finally, 
gained the foot of Mullen Hill. Llere Nan saw fit to 
halt. While we waited her pleasure an Indian astride 
of a gray cayuse stopped beside us. 

“How do, Skokem!” said Percy cordially, adding 
in an aside: “He’s Josie’s husband. But he’s had a 
few wives since she left him. I guess maybe he’s got 
one now.” 

“How,” responded the aborigine. A smile broad- 
ened his face as he critically surveyed the languid 
Nan. Then his dark eyes traveled with calm deliber- 
ation from the crown of my wide-brimmed hat to the 
toes of my rough boots, as he demanded : “Where you 
come from?” 

“From Mira-Monte ranch.” 

“Mira-Monte,” he repeated slowly. “Back there 
— I know,” pointing toward the north. “How long 
you been up there?” 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 99 


“Three years.” 

“Ugh!” Shrugging his shoulders and using the 
very direct mode of speech of the Indians and one 
which saves themselves and those with whom they 
converse an immense amount of time, “I never see 
you Baldwin.” 

Seton, whose gaze had been fastened upon Skoo- 
kem’s feet, suddenly spoke: “I want some mocas- 
sins exactly like yours. Can your wife make me a 
pair?” 

“She no make um now,” replied Skookem. “She 
no have um ” He stopped and frowned. 

“Doeskin,” suggested Seton. 

The Indian nodded, and rode away. He was al- 
most out of sight when Percy, who for some mo- 
ments had apparently been pondering deeply, 
pointed with his whip toward the stationary Nan 
and said: 

“Perhaps if a feller talked to her and petted her 
a bit, she’d go along better.” 

“It might be well for a fellow to try that experi- 
ment,” I agreed. Accordingly Percy alighted from 
the wagon and, going to the mare’s head, patted her 
gaunt neck. Next he put his lips close to her ear 
and told her of the oats which she would get so soon 
as they reached home. This promise seemed not to 
greatly impress Nan, who may have realized that 
the oats were five miles distant, and possibly had 


100 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


doubts, based upon previous experiences, of the 
probability of Percy being able to make good his 
pledge. Nevertheless the lad had faith in this new 
scheme for inducing locomotion, for he patiently 
repeated it whenever the mare voluntarily halted. 
On each of these occasions I promptly alighted from 
the wagon because of a conviction that a balking 
horse is liable to suddenly become a backing horse, 
and having no fancy for being plunged into eternity 
via a sheer cliff descending to a turbulent river. This 
lack of confidence in Nan or in his ability to control 
her must have been very annoying to Percy for he 
seemed quite as glad to say good-bye to me when 
we finally reached Mira-Monte as he was to get a 
cheque for the day’s time of himself and his outfit. 

That evening was devoted to r a discussion as to 
whether it would be wiser to make a contract with 
the owner of the boring outfit then encamped at 
Baldwin, to continue the work on the upper well, or 
to look further afield for a well-borer of more pleas- 
ing personality. The point in favor of Gibbons was 
that he could begin the work at once, whereas weeks 
might elapse before another boring outfit could be 
obtained. Moreover, the blasting had of late been 
wholly discontinued because Mike had not returned 
from his last spree at The Dalles, and no other labor 
was to be had. Nevertheless the prospect of having 
to depend permanently upon the lower well was too 


APPLE WOMAN OP THE KLICKITAT 101 

discouraging to be entertained, particularly as that 
source of supply might cease at any time. Yet it is 
amazing with how small an amount of water one can 
learn to manage when that fluid is not to be pro- 
cured for affection or money. Whenever possible, 
each quart is made to serve two purposes by Seton, 
who seems to regard the economy as a novel sort of 
diversion. The quart used for washing the tea cups 
he afterward carefully pours upon the thirsty rose 
trees near the tea house or sprinkles over the sweet 
peas which form a lavender and white exterior blind 
for his chamber window. 

After carefully weighing the pros and cons of the 
matter, we concluded to offer Gibbons three dollars 
per foot, for boring, but to guarantee him one hun- 
dred dollars, even though water were almost imme- 
diately struck, since he must bear the expense of 
transporting the machine from Baldwin, and setting 
it up. 

“If Mr. and Mrs. Gibbons and their assistant 
camp on this place, they’ll expect to take water from 
that lower well, and there’s hardly two feet in it now,” 
observed Seton. 

“They would better pitch their ten? a? Fleitman- 
hurst,” I suggested. 

“They would better live in the vacant shack at 
Fleitmanhurst,” amended the always practical Rich- 
ard. 


102 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


“Suppose they’ve planned to stay here,” hazarded 
Seton. 

“They will have to change their plan,” replied 
Richard. “Gibbons brought his well-boring outfit to 
this region expecting to get a contract to work here, 
and, even though he throws a bluff at first, he’ll come 
to our terms.” He sealed the letter with the air of 
one who has definitely settled a vexing question. 

“Mrs. Gibbons is a pretty girl,” observed Seton 
thoughtfully as he lighted the bedroom candles. “I 
wonder how that crusty, ill-mannered blacksmith in- 
duced her to marry him ?” 

“Probably she had never met a more superior type 
of man,” replied Richard, “and thought that she was 
drawing a matrimonial prize. A very young woman 
judges men solely by comparisons.” 

In accordance with our promise made to him at 
the spring near Mullen Hill road, Mr. Jack Gib- 
bons, professional well-borer, the following evening 
received our letter stating the terms upon which we 
would employ him. Soon after noon of the third 
day thereafter he appeared at Mira-Monte, and, 
after some demur and remarks to the effect that if 
“he didn’t look out for himself nobody else wasn’t 
goin’ to do it for him,” he agreed to accept our 
written proposition. But no sooner was the contract 
signed than it was very nearly broken, and by the 
mutual consent of both parties to it. 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 103 


“There’ll be a nice shady place for my two tents,” 
observed Mr. Gibbons, indicating a clump of trees 
which form an oasis in the centre of the kitchen gar- 
den, a plot of ground planted in the spring with all 
manner of vegetables scarcely half of which have 
come up because of the drought. 

“It’s too close to the shack,” objected Seton in 
mild and courteous tones. 

“I’ll camp right here — close to my machine, young 
feller,” retorted the well-borer sharply. 

“You’re not going to camp anywhere on this 
ranch,” remarked Richard quietly. “There’s scarcely 
any water here, as you know, and at Fleitmanhurst, 
only a half-mile away, there is a good well close to a 
vacant shack. Mrs. Barney goes there several times 
a week to do her washing, but she won’t interfere 
with you.” 

“There’ll be only me an’ my wife an’ one man,” 
persisted the well-borer, “an’ we’ll only be sleepin’ 
in them tents. It’s customary,” he added, with an 
air of finality, “for us to board with the family we’re 
borin’ for.” 

“Nobody boards at this house,” replied Richard 
curtly. He and Seton walked away in one direction, 
Mr. Jack Gibbons departed in another direction, and 
we had not the slightest idea of when he might be 
expected to return — if ever. But a few days later 
the boring outfit arrived. Its various sections had 


104* APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


been loaded upon flat drays and hauled from Baldwin 
over a short-cut but very rough trail, made years 
ago by the Klickitats and constantly used by them 
until our fences barred their way. The village man 
whose four horses drew the heaviest portion of the 
machinery was greatly interested in the enterprise. 
“Of course you’ve had that hole witched,” he re- 
marked, and looked dubious when told that no water 
witches had been consulted. The cult enjoy high 
favor in this region. Nobody will admit a belief in 
that form of black art but all maintain that not to 
seek the guidance of a witch stick before digging a 
well is the acme of folly. My remark that “water 
is where it is found and not to be pointed out by a 
hazel stick in the hand of a charlatan,” is hereabout 
quoted as the babbling of a tenderfoot and worthy 
only of derision. 

When the boring machine was first set up its 
grinding noise and the vibrations which it caused 
were rather distracting, but after a few days we 
scarcely noticed either. The chief annoyance is that 
the well-borer and his assistant, young Frost, who 
is “working out” a part of the well-boring done on 
his property, are constantly borrowing articles 
from the shack or the storehouse and forgetting to 
return them. In addition to this crime, Gibbons 
promptly appropriated my favorite snake stick, be- 
cause he “liked it.” Since then I have carefully 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 105 


carried all walking sticks indoors instead of laying 
them conveniently to hand across a huge stump near 
the bar-gate through which the two machinists enter 
the place. 

Since the beginning of July everyone hereabout 
has carried a snake stick when taking their walks 
abroad. At this season the rattlers, being tempo- 
rarily blind, do not rattle, and are literally under 
the feet and ready to bite before the intended victim 
is aware of their proximity. Thus far none of us 
has encountered a living rattler, although every 
neighbor is able to relate a thrilling tale about a 
snake and a friend’s friend. Seton is filled with an 
ambition to either kill a rattler or to procure a dead 
one so that he may drape its skin on the walls of 
his “snake” room at Princeton College. He assures 
us that this apartment is the envy of his classmates 
because of its unique decorative scheme, and that 
all it lacks of perfection is a rattler’s pelt. With 
this end in view he has posted a notice at Letter 
Box Grove offering a liberal reward for a local speci- 
men of the coveted reptile. He rarely fails to meet 
the rural mail carrier, who passes through Letter 
Box Grove every week day of late, thanks to a gov- 
ernment that can appreciate the wisdom of keeping 
the people of the wilderness in constant touch with 
civilization. Seton was starting for the grove on 
the fourth morning after the arrival of the boring 


106 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


outfit when the owner of the machine halted him and 
asked — rather commanded him — to tell Mrs. Gib- 
bons, due to arrive on the mail stage that day, how 
to reach Fleitmanhurst. Seton, ignoring Gibbons’ 
brusque manner, promised to escort the young woman 
to the shack. He reached home that day barely in 
time to lay the cloth for luncheon. While perform- 
ing that self-imposed task, he explained that he had 
helped Mrs. Gibbons to set her temporary home in 
order, adding, “She’s a nice little thing. Far too 
refined to be married to that blacksmith.” 

Richard grinned: “The blacksmith’s sorry for 
you, Seton. Only a few moments ago he remarked 
that ‘that there young whipper-snapper, Postley’d 
never be good for nothin’ better’n teachin’ or clerkin’, 
because he ain’t got the muscle for real work.’ 
You’ve no chance of ever getting a job from him.” 

“Just the same, I could put either one of those 
machinists on his back in a wrestling match,” was 
Seton’s serene reply as he stroked Pussy Mother, who 
was complacently perched upon his shoulder. 

That afternoon the well-borer’s wife came to Mira- 
Monte, and since then has repeated the visit nearly 
every day. Richard says that she looks like a Dres- 
den china figurine masquerading in a calico frock, 
gingham sunbonnet and coarse shoes — so delicately 
regular are her features, so flawless her gardenia- 
toned complexion, so fine her gold-brown hair. Her 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 107 


appearance and manner contrast oddly with the 
sinewy bulk and the rough ways of her saturnine hus- 
band whose patient submission to her childish, half- 
petulant tyranny is surprising, since to the rest of 
the world he is brusque and overbearing. Evey-line, 
as Gibbons calls his young wife, prattles unrestrain- 
edly about her affairs and long since confided to 
Richard that her romance with the well-borer, began 
on her step-father’s farm where the machinist econo- 
mized time by simultaneously boring a hole in basaltic 
rock, and planting affection for himself in the heart 
of the daughter of the house. 

Seton Postley, unable to understand how a middle- 
aged ruffian like Gibbons could have the slightest at- 
traction for the lovely Evelyn, does not agree with 
Richard’s theory that a girl who has always led an 
isolated life, is likely to accept her first offer of mar- 
riage, in the fear that she may never have another 
one. 

Since the boring machine has been set up we have 
had more callers than in the whole course of my re- 
sidence here. Among the first of these visitors was 
Mr. Carpenter, the settler who donated Pussy 
Mother when she was a kitten. While renewing ac- 
quaintance with her he casually mentioned that his 
children had no pet animal. Whereupon, Seton eag- 
erly presented to him a pair of kittens. Next day 
when Mrs. Gibbons complained that the Fleitman- 


108 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


hurst shack was overrun with mice, with ill-con- 
cealed glee, Seton gave her Carrie, the laziest and 
hungriest of Pussy Mother’s offspring. 

‘‘You all has been feeding that cat,” remarked Mr. 
Gibbons in tones expressive of unmeasured scorn for 
our weakness of character, “but you can jest bet she 
won’t get nothin’ to eat in our shack less’n she 
catches it. “Tain’t right for no cat with good claws 
onto her to be livin’ off’n folks.” 

The well-borer’s logic is sound. His is the doc- 
trine of a much more sophisticated class. 

Nevertheless, I am sorry that we let Carrie go, 
for Lila, the remaining kitten, is now an orphan. 
One night only a small portion of the food placed for 
the cats was consumed. Next morning only the kit- 
ten responded to Seton’s call to breakfast. At noon 
and at evening Lila ate alone. When another morn- 
ing dawned and Pussy Mother was still absent, Seton 
declared that some evil fate had overtaken her in the 
forest, and for hours vainly searched both “eighties” 
for traces of her. We concluded that she had fallen 
prey to a coyote, but changed that opinion later 
when the well-borer remarked quite casually: “Cats 
is coyotes’ favorite meat.” He exchanged glances 
with young Frost, who grinned broadly and winked 
an eye. 

“Either Gibbons or Frost has shot Pussy by mis- 
take for one of those gray rabbits which they hunt 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 109 


for in the woods mornings and evenings,” declared 
Seton. “And this isn’t the open season for game,” 
he concluded virtuously ; also inconsistently since 
every few days we eat a partridge of his providing. 

“Who is going to report them?” demanded Rich- 
ard. “Like the Indians, these frontiersmen consider 
that they have a right to procure meat by any means 
in their power. But let’s not discuss Pussy’s fate in 
their hearing, as they are doubtless secretly laugh- 
ing at our solicitude concerning her.” 

For several days thereafter Lila was greatly puz- 
zled by the almost simultaneous disappearance of her 
kin. She wandered forlornly about the clearing, now 
and again trying to attach herself to Collie, who in- 
variably scorned her overtures despite the affection 
which he had ever displayed toward her late mother. 
Next she attempted to win caresses from us and by 
persisting in her determination to be loved, is now 
permitted to remain upon our knees when we sit out- 
side the shack in the cool of the evening. Although 
Seton and Richard brand her a nuisance and a shirk, 
too lazy to work for a living, I know that they are 
beginning to like her and am confidently looking for- 
ward to the time when they will loudly chant her 
praises. 


CHAPTER X 


“Now that you’ve made friends with Josie 
Skookem, you’ll probably get into the creme de la 
creme of red society even though you haven’t been 
able to break into the white society of Klickitat 
county,” jeered Richard, who agrees with Seldie that 
I have been snubbed hereabout because only one of 
the neighboring women has called upon me during the 
three years and more of my residence here. 

Mr. Tanner, who was present at the time, laughed 
heartily: “Anyhow, you don’t feel badly about being 
snubbed, an’ Gibbonses’ wife is lavin’ awake nights 
wonderin’ what she’s done to offend the women ’round 
here. That little creature gets the icy face wherever 
she shows her pretty one. An’ she’s never did any- 
body a mite of harm.” 

Seldie smiled sardonically: “They’re thinkin’ that 
maybe — if she gets the chance — she’ll do harm some 
time, for it ain’t reasonable to suppose she’s in love 
with that scowling well-borer.” 

“At that, she might be, Seldie,” contradicted the 
old pioneer. “There’s never no accountin’ for what 
a woman’ll do. But ever since the Gibbonses stayed 
110 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 111 


so long as the Blacke-McCormicks’, a-borin’ that 
wonderful well on that place, Mis’ McCormick’s been 
down on little Mis’ Gibbons. So, of course, most of 
the other women are.” 

Mrs. Blacke-McCormick, acknowledged leader of 
society in this county, is an ex-schoolteacher of Chi- 
cago, and a member of the Illinois D. A. R. She 
owes her present exalted position to her husband’s 
reputation for having ten thousand dollars “ready 
money.” In addition to being in the chicken and but- 
ter business, she is chatelaine of a miniature imita- 
tion, in unpealed logs, of a colonial mansion. This 
unique house is surrounded by a log stockade of the 
sort in use when it was fashionable for Indians to 
arrange surprise parties for the diversion of the early 
settlers of America. Although my presence in this 
neighborhood has never been formally recognized by 
its social leader, I, nevertheless, have had the temer- 
ity — a New York society reporter will dare any- 
thing — to present myself unbidden at her gates. Re- 
ceived with the chilly politeness so familiar to the 
journalist and expected to utterly crush her, I in- 
stantly felt at ease with Mrs. Blacke-McCormick. 
Her distinctly middle-class appearance, coupled with 
her condescending air, so enraptured me that I set- 
tled myself comfortably in a rocking chair, prepara- 
tory to drawing her out. We were getting on nicely 
when the D. A. R.’s husband entered the room and 


112 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


unconscious^ upset this amiable scheme. It was 
Sunday morning. Mr. Blacke-McCormick had just 
had the bath he takes once a week whether he needs 
it or not, and was arrayed in a clean khaki suit, a 
pongee shirt and soft leather slippers, all of a shade 
precisely matching his yellow-brown hair, military 
mustache and sharply inwardly curved eyebrows. 
He followed my introduction to him — the chatelaine 
of the log mansion knows what is what — with a mono- 
logue about the vast sums of money he was spending 
upon his ranch and of how impossible it was for a 
person not possessed of exceptional intelligence to 
develop an apple orchard. When he paused for 
breath, I ventured: 

“Some hundreds of persons of ordinary intelligence 
and limited resources have developed apple orchards 
that are now bringing in annual incomes of from five 
to ten thousand dollars ” 

“ They say they’re making that much money,” in- 
terrupted the host, “but don’t you believe them. 
Anyhow, 3 ^ou’ll never be able to do so because, being 
as you’ve always lived in New York, you can’t know 
anything about growing fruit.” 

“But I can learn — I am learning. And my brother 
is ” 

“That brother of you’n ain’t nothin’ but a minin’ 
engineer. He can’t help you none.” 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 113 

This was a bit hard on Richard, who has had gar- 
dens in various lands. Before I could take up arms 
in his defense, however, my host continued: 

“Besides, you ain’t got a good well. Nor you ain’t 
likely to get one. And a place without water’s no 
good. Pity you haven’t the money to take up some 
land nearer to this ranch, so as to have some show of 
gettin’ a well like ours.” 

“Yes,” echoed Mrs. Blacke-McCormick, “a well 
like ours. It cost eighteen hundred dollars. That is 
a great deal of money,” she concluded impressively. 

Eighteen hundred dollars seems like a great deal 
of money to me now, and I fancy it is about twelve 
hundred more than the McCormick well cost. The 
pause threatened to be an awkward one since I could 
think of nothing to say. Fortunately, at that mo- 
ment came a violent scratching at the screen 
door. Collie was the culprit. He had been left out- 
side the stockade lest he chase the Blacke-McCormick 
fowl, but in some way he had effected an entrance. 

“I can’t abide dogs,” remarked the hostess gra- 
ciously, as she reluctantly admitted Collie. He was 
in no way abashed by his cold reception, but, coming 
to a standstill in the center of the room, gazed with 
frank, uncritical brown eyes into her stern face. To 
get away from the topic of wells, water and worth- 
less ranches, I made Collie go through with all of his 


114 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


clever tricks, but the applause was half-hearted and 
as soon as opportunity offered I broached my er- 
rand. 

With a show of reluctance, Mrs. Blacke-McCor- 
mick consented to part with two pounds of butter at 
a price considerably in advance of the quoted city 
market prices, and they were placed in the grass bag 
which Collie gallantly insisted upon carrying. When 
taking leave, I invited her to come and see us, but she 
replied that she never went so far from home. As 
she frequently walks the eight miles between her co- 
lonial copy in logs and Baldwin, I have an impression 
, that she does not care to see more of me. I am un- 
certain whether this disapproval is aroused by my 
manner, my appearance, or my canine companion. 
It is difficult to understand how any human being 
can dislike Collie. I cannot help wearing my face 
since it is the only one that I have, and certainly the 
county’s social leader should not have been offended 
by my manner toward herself as — ostensibly — it was 
one of meekness mixed with admiring awe — the kind 
I had for years successfully used with the most ma- 
jestic of Manhattan’s multi-millionaire matrons. It 
may be that I should have been more surprised to 
hear about the marvelous well. But its reputation 
was well known to me, having been furnished by Mr. 
Barney, whose sociable and curious disposition has 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 115 

(developed in him a fad for paying visits. As an in- 
veterate Sunday caller, he has s'een the inside of every 
shack within a ten-mile radius of his home. I sus- 
pect he paid his respects to the Blacke-McCormick’s 
solely for the purpose of learning whether their place 
were blessed with what he terms a “regular well.” 

On my way home from the colonial log house, I 
met a band of fifteen hundred sheep. The animals 
belonged to Mr. Tanner and were innocently jour- 
neying to a slaughter-house from the up-country 
range whereon they had been fattening under the 
charge of a herder. This man begged me to stop 
until the band had passed by, because while sheep 
do not take alarm at the sight of an unfamiliar per- 
son who stands stock still, a moving body inspires 
the silly creatures with fear. Panic-stricken, they 
will turn and flee aimlessly in an opposite direction, 
the sheep at the edge of the band crowding against 
those in the center of it. The animals belonging to 
Mr. Tanner backed diagonally from my awful pres- 
ence and toward a horseman who had been loitering 
at the rear of the procession. This man, riding close 
to my side, alighted from his horse and began to cul- 
tivate the acquaintance of Collie who, as usual, met 
him more than half way. This second herder ex- 
plained that he was in no haste to reach Baldwin, 
but that the leading man insisted upon hurrying the 


116 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


sheep along at an almost inhuman and certainly at 
a weight-reducing rate, because “he ain’t had nothin’ 
ter drink for three months.” 

Mr. Tanner has a characteristic method of keep- 
ing a herder with his sheep. Whenever such an em- 
ployee comes to the village he gives him whatever 
wages are due him, and something extra. When the 
last dollar of this sum has been spent in the saloons 
or lost at the gaming tables, a tent and a grub stake 
on a sheep range present an alluring picture to the 
herder. Thus life continues from season to season 
and from year to year. Few herders accumulate any 
money, and, as a class, they either lack the initiative 
to get on in the world or, having made a series of 
business failures, give up trying to improve their 
condition. 

Lila, orphaned and sisterless, is so lonely — or so 
naturally sociable — that she insists upon taking a 
daily walk with me despite the sticks, stones and 
earth-clods cast at her, and which she invariably 
dodges. We parade the neighborhood, Collie leading 
and Lila warily bringing up the rear. My walks have 
a definite purpose, the inspection of some other set- 
tler’s orchard, in the hope of learning something of 
value about the care of my own. Rarely, indeed, do 
I find material for criticism. It would seem that a 
fruit which would refuse to thrive hereabout must be 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 117 


most ungrateful, for everything possible is done to 
assist its budding, blossoming and fruition. 

Every eastern farmer or horticulturist who visits 
the fruit-growing districts of the Klickitat country, 
expresses surprise at the amount of care bestowed 
upon an average-sized, progressive orchard. Not a 
blade of grass nor a weed is to be seen. The top soil 
is carefully mulched to a depth of two inches to pre- 
serve the moisture. Every tree is carefully pruned 
and sprayed. The fruit is thinned out so that one 
apple cannot touch another. The visitor’s first ques- 
tion is : “Does it pay to give so much attention to so 
small an orchard — from five to ten acres?” It docs 
pay. One man of Hood River, Oregon, took two 
thousand and forty-two dollars gross from one and 
three-fourths acres, which netted him nine hundred 
dollars per acre. Another grower took four thou- 
sand, two hundred and fifty-eight dollars from two 
and nine-tenths acres, and a third realized seven hun- 
dred and fifty dollars per acre, while still another 
sold five thousand boxes of apples, which netted him 
eight thousand dollars, from fifteen acres. But this 
class of orchardist does not sit on the fence and count 
the crows that chance to go by. He is continually 
occupied in examining each tree for signs of insects ; 
in cutting a limb to make the tree more shapely; in 
pinching another limb to promote buds. He forces a 


118 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


bountiful Nature to outdo herself by literally making 
two perfect apples grow where there might have been 
none at all. 

It is asked if correct composition of soil, perfect 
climate and proper attention to details ensure per- 
fect fruit and guarantee good profits ? By no means ! 
The individual grower might, and probably would, 
make a large income if he or she happened to be pos- 
sessed of good business ability. But it is organiza- 
tion that has done so much for the famous fruit- 
growing districts of the Pacific Northwest. The in- 
dividual grower cares for his apple orchard up to the 
time of picking. Then he stands aside and the Asso- 
ciation takes the crop in hand and does the picking, 
packing, storing, selling and shipping. 

During one of our rambles — it was a fortnight or 
so after my call at the colonial log house — Collie 
and I came upon a cabin standing solitary upon a 
grass-grown, unfenced half-acre clearing. Unlike the 
average abandoned dwelling hereabout, the shack’s 
doors and windows were closely boarded over, and no 
glimpse could be obtained of its interior. Its ex- 
terior is charming. Wild roses had been trained to 
clamber about the walls and the field stone chimney, 
and there is a rustic porch before the door. More- 
over, the clearing is innocent of the accumulated 
junk which nearly always disfigures the dooryards of 
most settlers who have gone away to earn money 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 119 

with which to live while developing their holdings. 
On the opposite side of the road, and shaded by tall 
oaks, is a trough fashioned from the huge trunk of 
a fallen tree. But no water flows through it now, 
doubtless to the disappointment of many a thirsty, 
weary horse. As I sat on the edge of the trough and 
rested, a girlish figure came into view from around 
a curve in the road, and Collie, instantly recognizing 
the well-borer’s young wife, ran to greet her. As 
though wearied by a long walk and the burden of her 
large basket, Mrs. Gibbons sank upon the soft, short 
turf, and, after breathing a sigh of relief, said: 

“That Mrs. Blacke-McCormick in the fancy log 
house has terrible eyes. She bored right into me with 
them like she was trying to see whether I really went 
there to buy her eggs or to see the inside of her home. 
Anyone would think she was selling diamonds instead 
of ‘cackle berries,’ she’s that stuck up. She wanted 
to know how much money Mr. Postley’s got.” I 
laughed and my companion, echoing the laugh, 
added: “She acted as though she didn’t believe me 
when I told her that he’s poor. She might know that 
by his clothes. She said it was told her that he in- 
tended to buy Loring’s ranch, just so as to give you 
a right-of-way to the county road. When I said that 
I didn’t believe that Mr. Postley has any money, she 
laughed in a sort of hateful way, and said : ‘He spent 
money like a young prince yesterday at Baldwin. A 


120 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


Jew peddler sold him two solid silver belts.’ I s’pose 
she means that one you’re wearing now — and another 
one. She asked how long you’re expecting him to 
stay here.” 

“And you said?” 

“That I didn’t know, but hoped it would be for a 
long time — or, anyhow, until you get water — because 
I like Mr. Postley awfully,” was the na'ive reply. 
“He’s different, somehow, from other boys — men,” 
she added dreamily. 

“Did you meet Miss Blacke-McCormick?” I asked. 

“Anita? Yes. She stared at these old clothes I’m 
wearing till I felt like taking them off and throwing 
them out of the window, I was so ashamed of them, 
but she didn’t speak excepting to ask why Mr. Post- 
ley’s never at the Saturday night dances. Why 
doesn’t he go to them?” 

“Why don’t you go fo them?” I parried. 

“Jack won’t take me. He says he’d knock the 
block off’n any feller who’d dare to ask me to waltz. 
I haven’t been to a dance since we were married.” 

Although she would probably enjoy going to the 
weekly dances, there was not a suggestion of discon- 
tent in the young wife’s tones nor a shadow of unhap- 
piness in the expression of her pretty face, as she 
gave her reasons for not attending the local festivi- 
ties. Across Collie’s red-gold head she smiled frankly 
into my eyes and changed the theme of her conversa- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 121 


tion only because the sight of the rose-covered cabin 
opposite recalled another topic to her mind: “The 
man that owns that shack went away from here be- 
cause his wife ran off with their hired man — a Swede. 
I’d hate to be a Swede.” 

“Why?” 

“Oh, they’re all over this country — everywhere — 
and I just don’t like them. They can’t speak English 
without mussing it all up.” 

“We can’t speak Swedish at all , Mrs. Gibbons.” 

“But if the Swedes are going to live among us they 
ought to learn to speak our way,” persisted the^well- 
borer’s wife. 

“Our way,” I echoed, half aloud. “The old rule 
about doing in Rome as do the Romans cannot well 
be applied by the people who come to this part of the 
United States because the Klickitats’ ideas and the 
Blacke-McCormick’s ideas and Seldie’s ideas are so 
utterly different.” 

“Well, I’m not going to take pattern after Mrs. 
Blacke-McCormick even if she does live in a fancy 
house and keep a hired girl,” declared the well-borer’s 
wife in positive tones. “Jack hates swells; he says 
they’re never any good — ’specially the men.” She 
looked intently into my face as she put her next ques- 
tion. “Mr. Postley isn’t really a swell — is he?” 

“He does not say that he is one.” 

“That’s just what I told Jack,” said my com- 


122 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


panion enthusiastically. “Mr. Postley’s good, too. 
He’d never try to do harm to anyone. Look how wor- 
ried he was about that cat that Ed Frost ” She 

stopped abruptly, stood up, and lifted her basket of 
eggs. “Let’s go home,” she suggested. 

As the well-borer’s young wife trotted along the 
trail ahead of me, I wondered what she would be like 
after a few more years of companionship with her 
jealous, sullen, uncouth husband. “Perhaps he really 
is a ‘breed,’ as Seldie surmises,” I thought, “and un- 
trustworthy.” Suddenly the forest lost its charm for 
me. It seemed dark and menacing now that we were 
sheltered from the sunlight. The air felt chill. I 
was eager to get home — and see if Seton were safe. 
“Perhaps they’ve struck water this afternoon,” I 
said in explanation of my quickened pace. 

“That’s right,” agreed the well-borer’s wife. “It 
comes all of a sudden, usually just after I’ve got ac- 
quainted with the folks at the place and like being 
round with them. And then,” regretfully, “we have 
to move on and never see those people again. Jack 
don’t mind so long as he gets his money. Generally 
speaking, he’s glad to clear out ; he says there’s such 
a thing as getting to know some folks too well.” 



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CHAPTER XI 


The boring machine continues to groan complain- 
ingly, and to shake the shack as it labors over the 
three-dollar-a-foot hole that seems likely to extend to 
China. Seton, having small faith in the venture, con- 
siders that the dollars are being thrown away. Rich- 
ard believes that water may be struck at any mo- 
ment, and, as he is advancing the money to pay for 
the work, it is fortunate that he has so sustaining a 
conviction. I am hoping for luck. Without water 
from a reliable source the ranch would still be val- 
uable, as the soil of this region is so rich that fruit 
trees grow and flourish without irrigation. So eag- 
erly are lands hereabout being purchased at this time 
that my quarter-section has doubled in value since I 
bought it nearly three and a half years ago. Any- 
how, in case Gibbons does not strike water after bor- 
ing several hundred feet, it would be possible to store 
sufficient rainwater in a huge reservoir of cement- 
lined wood, to tide us over from one wet season to 
another. There is no reason for being discouraged. 
In fact, I am feeling very optimistic since the recent 
visit of an orchard expert who said, after examining 
123 


124 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


my trees : “In two years more you should get a fair- 
sized apple crop.” 

The amount of water that now suffices for a bath is 
astonishingly small, and there is not a drop of it to 
spare for the windows and the floors. These can 
merely be kept broom clean and are beginning to look 
decidedly grimy. So must they continue to appear 
until Nature or Gibbons provides us w T ith more water, 
and, although we very much desire a well, we are des- 
perately tired of having the boring outfit on the 
premises. It attracts curious neighbors, most of 
whom voice pessimistic opinions as to the result of 
the enterprise and solely because no witch stick was 
consulted. 

“You’ll have to bore a mile for water,” blatantly 
prophesied Mr. Blacke-McCormick. 

“To bore a mile would cost only fifteen thousand 
dollars,” observed Seton, forgetting the role that 
goes with his sweat-shop garb. 

Mrs. Gibbons, w r ho is kind-hearted and generous to 
a degree, has, several times, implored her husband to 
give Seton a job as helper with the boring machine. 
The unworldly little creature would be greatly sur- 
prised to learn that from the Princeton junior’s in- 
come he could buy the entire boring outfit and 
scarcely miss its purchase money. 

Because of the smuts with which their faces and 
hands are habitually smeared, the well-borer and his 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 125 


assistant look like thugs whereas Ed Frost is a re- 
spectable young orchardist, and Gibbons himself is 
harmless — so far as we know — aside from his habit 
of kicking Collie. We have hoped that the dog would 
retaliate with his strong, white teeth, but, instead of 
reprisals, each morning he cordially welcomes both 
mechanics and escorts them from the bar-gate to the 
scene of their labors. Collie’s behavior is an example 
in amiability, forgiveness and loving kindness to those 
who have spitefully treated him, by which most 
of the persons whom he has encountered might 
profit. He has such charming manners that in his 
next incarnation he will doubtless be a man of fash- 
ion of the type greatly sought after by hostesses. 
Seton prophesies that the animal will be a cotillion 
leader when that form of dancing again becomes the 
mode because of the grace with which he waltzes on 
his hind legs whenever invited to go for a walk. 

“He’s so tickled to get to go,” explained Gibbons 
one afternoon as Collie, Seton and I were starting 
for a ramble. 

‘Evey-line,” who had returned to the ranch that 
day with the two mechanics after the noon-day meal 
at Fleitmanhurst, remarked that she had come over 
because she was so lonely at home, so we invited her 
to walk with us. Since then it has been her daily 
habit to accompany us. 

Aside from Mrs. Gibbons, the only neighboring 


126 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


woman who has called here is Mrs. Carpenter. She 
and her husband came on the day that Nan, Percy, 
Seton and I escorted Margery Trevor to Baldwin, 
and, as they happened to arrive just as Richard 
was starting to go fishing, I hate to wonder how cor- 
dial was his greeting. He confessed that he neglected 
to make tea for them, though the lady had gone 
into raptures over the silver that Seton had left on 
the sideboard. The Carpenters, comparatively near 
neighbors, live two miles distant by the most direct 
trails. By that route they came hither, the woman 
mounted upon their horse, which her husband led over 
the steep and rocky path where a mis-step might re- 
sult in a serious accident to both steed and rider. 
During their call, Richard showed them over the 
shack and was greatly amused by their opinions and 
criticisms of it. They instantly appreciated the ad- 
vantage of using gunny sacking dust covers for the 
beds, improvised dressing-tables and wardrobes, and 
waxed enthusiastic over the Oriental window draper- 
ies and the brass sconces in the library and the living- 
room. But they considered our heirloom mahogany 
furniture “too black and funeral looking,” and the 
rugs “too solemn colored.” 

For many weeks following the Carpenters’ call, I 
had tried hard to return it, but deemed it discour- 
teous to go there alone. Richard, scorner of women, 
flatly refused to do his social duty and Seton — not 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 127 

scenting any amusement — only consented, finally, to 
accompany me on condition that he need not make a 
special toilet. Although the afternoon on which I 
wrung this reluctant consent from him was exces- 
sively warm, I feared to put off the excursion lest he 
change his mind, and directly after luncheon we fared 
forth. A pair of black thread gloves was expected 
to lend a touch of elegance to my faded, oft-laun- 
dered blue cotton frock, and to his khaki shirt and 
trouser costume, Seton added a necktie. Near the 
bar-gate we encountered Evelyn, looking exception- 
ally pretty in a pink checked gingham frock and sun- 
bonnet, and invited her to go with us. 

Despite explicit directions and the loan of a com- 
pass from Richard, who had once been to the Car- 
penters’ on business, we three — two tenderfeet and a 
girl reared on the frontier — contrived to get away 
from the direct trails and to wander several miles in 
the wrong direction because of mistaking a red house 
on a hilltop for our destination, w T hich was a red 
house on an entirely different hilltop. 

Hours later when we had about decided to aban- 
don our attempt to call upon the Carpenters, we 
came upon an unoccupied shack standing in a neg- 
lected orchard, and, spying a well sweep, scaled 
a barbed-wire fence in the hope of securing a drink 
of water. The sweep topped a perfectly dry water- 
hole, but from the steps of the house Evelyn Gibbons 


128 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


discerned a red homestead which she concluded must 
be the one we were searching for, because an ancient 
sorrel horse was grazing near to it. We had pre- 
viously seen that animal at Letter Box Grove, and 
knew it as the cherished possession of the family 
whose home we were seeking. Although painfully 
thin, indecently bald and, apparently, born a century 
ago, the sorrel is certainly worth the ten dollars paid 
for him by the Carpenters, for he frequently hauls 
several hundred pounds of freight from Baldwin. It 
may be that his green old age is due to the excellent 
care which he takes of himself. Pie never travels 
faster than a walk nor neglects an opportunity to 
take a nap. He usually goes to sleep the instant that 
his rider alights from his ribs. 

Our arrival at the Carpenters’ house abruptly 
aroused its mistress from a siesta which she was en- 
joying upon the living-room lounge. But she was in 
no way embarrassed when, upon opening her eyes, 
she beheld three strangers standing at her wide-open 
door. Swinging a pair of generously developed feet 
from the couch, she received us beamingly, scarcely 
heeding and certainly not catching the names of my 
two companions as they were introduced. As she 
vivaciously chatted in juvenile accents — due to an 
impediment of speech — we took in her handsome 
Junoesque proportions, brilliant black eyes, luxur- 
iant hair, and clear, healthy-looking complexion. 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 129 

This stunning beauty, in no wise disconcerted by a 
consciousness of her dishabille, talked easily as she 
pinned together the gaping fronts of her negligee, 
and knotted up her loosened locks. Then, with gen- 
tle force, she removed Evelyn’s pink sunbonnet and 
my sombrero from our respective heads. This hos- 
pitable rite accomplished, she introduced her neat, 
well-mannered children; two curly-haired blonde lit- 
tle girls, and a twelve-year-old boy with sad, wistful 
eyes set in an abnormally developed head. 

Mrs. Carpenter, who is exceedingly fond of what 
she terms “mingling in society,” sees very little of it 
at present, because, during the summer, all of her 
neighbors are busy. She explained that she had 
called to invite me to join the weekly sewing circle, 
which includes most of the women within a ten-mile 
radius, but that since the beginning of warm weather 
these meetings had been adjourned. Nevertheless, 
the past few weeks had not been wholly devoid of di- 
versions. There had been several picnics for which 
everyone had dressed up “so that we shall not forget 
how,” she interpolated, and one woman had given a 
“pink” luncheon. As our hostess began to describe 
this function, she begged me not to laugh. Indeed, 
I had had no idea of laughing, and don’t know why 
it is that people so frequently surmise that I am 
amused at them. Can it be that what I consider is 
a smile indicative of amiable interest in their dis- 


130 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


course, is, by them, construed as an effort to restrain 
unseemly mirth? It is a mortifying misfortune not 
to be able to force one’s facial muscles to faithfully 
portray one’s emotions. Having tried to convey this 
idea to Mrs. Carpenter, she lucidly explained : 
“That’s because of the shape of your mouth,” where- 
upon Seton solemnly nodded agreement with her, and 
Evelyn Gibbons looked absolutely bewildered, as well 
she might have. 

When Mr. Carpenter entered the room, his wife 
introduced Mrs. Gibbons as the wife of Seton Post- 
ley. After I had explained that the one was mar- 
ried to the well-borer and the other was too young 
to think of acquiring a helpmeet, she remarked that 
any stranger would assume them to be bride and 
bridegroom. Seton promptly covered Evelyn’s em- 
barrassment by asking for a drink. Whereupon the 
two little girls were sent to get fresh water from a 
well about a hundred yards from the house and at 
the foot of a steep hill. The children seemed not to 
mind the stiff climb and said that they packed most 
of the water used in the household. Despite their 
fairylike appearance, they are strong as young pine 
knots, and the buckets they carry are not large. We 
were shown the hastily cleared young apple orchard, 
of which the Carpenters are inordinately proud. 
They consider that they have done wonders in the 
four years since taking up their claim, are confi- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 131 


dently expecting to pick an income from those trees 
after another year or so and thenceforth to live in 
luxury. Their more experienced neighbors believe 
that the Carpenters are destined to disappointmnt, 
for so eager were the husband and wife to get the 
trees planted and growing, that many scrub oak 
roots were left in the ground. 

No scrub oak breeding places for apple-tree-de- 
stroying insects are in my orchard. I had read and 
heard so much about the mischief done by them that 
in order to prevent any such misfortune I frequently 
made what the fraternally frank Richard terms “a 
fool of myself.” Whenever a patch of that land was 
being plowed over I followed directly behind the plow- 
man and saw to it that no tiniest bit of a root was 
covered by the scattered earth clods. Naturally, this 
surveillance enraged the agriculturist, but to have 
declared that he would not submit to it would have 
been to jeopardize a daily wage of five dollars for 
himself and his team. The five acres designed for 
peaches are now in readiness for the plowing to be 
done this autumn, although the infant trees are not 
to be set out until next spring. Peaches mature and 
yield a crop at the end of two years. Long be- 
fore mine can be expected to bear fruit, I shall prob- 
ably be in dire need of money. Unless a financial 
miracle happens, I shall be unable to clear more land 
— I had been thinking of experimenting with grapes 


182 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


— until the apple orchard has yielded a large crop. 
My original capital is now reduced to a few hundred 
dollars which must be husbanded as an emergency 
fund. I simply never allow myself to think about 
clothes. Whenever anybody sends me a fashion 
magazine, I say, “Get thee behind me, Satan,” and 
hand the torment to a neighbor. So obscessed am I 
with the craze for improving this place that I can 
readily imagine myself sacrificing every consideration 
of personal vanity to its cause. Doubtless I shall, 
sooner or later, present myself at Letter Box Grove 
in garments fashioned from gunny sacking. The 
wardrobe that came here with me is now so shabby 
that even Evelyn Gibbons pities me. I can see that 
in her eyes. Yet solely because of the rapid rise in 
land value hereabout, I am several thousand dollars 
richer — or less poor — than upon the day that Seldie 
and I set up housekeeping in the ten-by-fourteen-foot 
tent. Each season greatly increases the value of that 
portion of the home “forty,” planted with apple trees 
since those acres represent a “going orchard.” And 
going orchards, according to age and condition, have 
been selling around here for from one thousand to 
sixteen hundred dollars the acre. After two more 
years I should harvest a crop which should sell for 
not less than a thousand dollars. The fifth year, 
according to Richard, who is prone to err on the side 
of pessimism, the crop should net two hundred dol- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 133 

lars to the acre. Few, indeed, are the metropolitan 
hack writers who earn a much larger income year 
after year. To them lean seasons are liable to occur 
with appalling frequency and to begin with stunning 
suddenness. 

Prior to Seton’s coming, it was our habit to write 
long, carefully phrased letters between breakfast and 
mail-carrier time, but since that lively youth has 
been about the place, the morning hours, developing 
wings, have flown so rapidly that the warning ten 
strokes of the clock usually forces us to wind up our 
effusions with an abruptness which must amaze their 
recipients. It is an unwritten law that everyone shall 
be in readiness to leave the shack for Letter Box 
Grove by ten-fifteen. When we shall return from this 
excursion is always a problem for the rural letter 
man, scheduled to pass our al fresco station at eleven 
o’clock, reaches there at any time before one. The 
homesteader who goes for the family mail must be 
resigned to the sacrifice of an entire morning because 
of the uncertainty of Uncle Sam’s delegate. 

None of the people who regularly assemble at the 
grove are of the farming class. A surprising fea- 
ture of fruit-growing in the Pacific Northwest is that 
the bulk of it is not done by farmers. On the con- 
trary, nearly every other trade, occupation and pro- 
fession is represented. In Klickitat county alone 
may be found machinist, chemist, dentist, lawyer, 


134 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


schoolteacher and trade-laborer orchardists. Few 
of us have passed the period of middle-age. Most of 
us are work-roughened. All of us are exceedingly 
thin. Not constitutionally, but dietetically. We 
could scarcely be otherwise in a region which does not 
regularly afford fresh vegetables, fruit, fish or meat. 
Nor is our garb picturesque. The majority of us 
are in the coarse garments of the sweat shops. The 
men mostly wear overalls, which are clean on Mon- 
days and soiled on Saturdays, as Sunday is the fash- 
ionable time for changing raiment in this region. 
The women affect cheap, fancy blouses with skirts of 
the type best adapted for sweeping the dust from the 
trails as they descend them, and shoes with Louis 
heels. They regard my broad-toed mountain boots 
with disgust, mingled with amazement at the size of 
my feet, and, in common with Mrs. Blacke-McCor- 
mick, consider my brief, scant skirl “fast.” Few 
mothers come to the letter-boxes, because of having 
no one with whom to leave their young children, but 
meeting the carrier is regarded as an outing by the 
childless wives, most of whom are regularly at the 
grove. One of these women is Mrs. James Greene, 
a typical Larrikiness from St. Louis, Mo., where her 
husband was formerly a cab-driver. She has a petite, 
trim figure, abundant, elaborately arranged, dust- 
toned hair, a sallow complexion, a discontented ex- 
pression, a common-school education, and unlimited 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 135 

self-confidence. When the possibility of having a 
district schoolhouse erected near the grove was re- 
cently being discussed by the settlers, assembled at 
the letter-boxes, Mrs. Greene announced that she 
would take charge of it. No doubt she could conduct 
it quite as successfully as a licensed teacher. Cer- 
tainly she could exercise better government than most 
teachers, for her voice and eyes would promptly ter- 
rify any obstreperous child into obedience. The 
squaws hereabout refer to Mrs. Greene as the “wise 
white woman,” and often bring to her shack an ill 
papoose or a toddling child, for, having been the old- 
est of her mother’s large family and having aided in 
the rearing of the younger children, she is qualified to 
prescribe for almost any infantile ailment, and un- 
afraid to do so. Mr. Greene, two years the junior of 
his capable wife, customarily addresses her as 
“Marne,” while she usually refers to him as “that 
boy.” Their claim is about a mile north of the Lor- 
ings’, and to reach their home they are obliged to 
cross that ranch. Consequently, the families are on 
intimate terms, although the two men are of widely 
dissimilar habits. Young Greene works at whatever 
he can get to do. Loring works only when, his thirst 
for firewater having become intolerable, he must earn 
the dollar with which to buy it. 

Some of our neighbors still have enough water for 
their stock and can keep it hereabout instead of on 


136 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


the grazing lands many miles up country. These 
fortunate persons ride to Letter Box Grove. Percy 
Nelson comes on Nan, who, when not otherwise en- 
gaged, loafs up and down the center of the county 
road, and never gets out of the way until forcibly 
pushed aside by the driver of whatever vehicle is ap- 
proaching her. 

Another equestrian is Percy’s cousin, recently ar- 
rived from England. This seventeen-year-old girl, 
having been apprenticed to a dressmaker in the pro- 
vincial town of her birth, is far and away the most 
stunningly garbed female in this region. Although 
block-shaped and dough-featured, her big, blank, blue 
eyes and brilliantly fresh complexion allied to her po- 
sition as sole heiress of her father’s homestead, make 
her the belle at all the local festivities. Miss Lucy 
Nelson is wonderfully fortunate in having Percy as 
an escort, as no calamity short of sudden death could 
prevent him from attending a dance, picnic or straw- 
berry festival. The first time that we saw this young 
English maiden, her riding costume consisted of 
high-heeled, low-cut shoes, a fancifully made frock, 
and an elaborately trimmed picture hat. With her 
shoulders awkwardly drawn forward and her chin 
resting upon her chest, she sat Nan, the Balker, as 
solidly as though she were a graven image. Coming 
abreast of us she halted her steed by jerking at its 
bridle and commanding her to “wait,” This phrase- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 137 

°l°gy perfectly delighted Richard, because it was an 
additional proof of his theory that most British and 
American women do not appreciate the richness of 
the English tongue. 

That morning the mail stage was very late, in- 
deed. As it halted at the letter-boxes a kodak high- 
wayman, seated beside the driver, held us up: “I’ve 
never seen so many of you people here before!” he 
exclaimed. “It’s too good a chance to lose. Every- 
body look pleasant now, while I immortalize your 
mugs.” With the ungraceful English maiden in the 
front of the picture, we all posed, several of us sin- 
cerely hoping that the plate would prove a blank dis- 
appointment to the operator. The mail wagon was 
carrying an unusual number of passengers. In ad- 
dition to the amateur photographer, there were two 
languid-looking, middle-aged men who sat at the rear 
of the vehicle, their feet hanging over, while on the 
two passenger seats were crowded a couple of faded, 
shabby women, six half-grown children, and a thin old 
man. The old man held in his arms a querulous in- 
fant of teething age, but he smiled so cordially as our 
eyes met that I stepped to his side, and, because he 
was loquacious, soon learned that his destination was 
fifteen miles further up country where he was taking 
up a homestead for the benefit of his two sons. 
They, having sold relinquishments of land in eastern 
Oregon, had forfeited further homesteading rights. 


138 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


“Them boys,” indicating the two middle-aged men, 
“is restless like. They don’t stay long nowheres. 
This is our third move in five years.” 

It seems sad that so old a person should be forced 
to take up life on a frontier where conditions are 
hard even for the young, strong and hopeful, and I 
wondered if the baby’s patient nurse did not consider 
that Fate was being unnecessarily harsh with him at 
the sunset of his life. Yet he looked quite happy as 
he chirruped to the peevish grandchild, and, perhaps, 
the living with his children and grandchildren on his 
own land will be a sufficient compensation. Doubt- 
less, this third move will be the last one despite the 
restlessness of “them boys,” since the homesteader 
who at the age of seventy-five files a claim may rea- 
sonably expect to die upon it. 

Greene and Loring had been on strained terms for 
several days past ; in fact, since their respective wives 
had had a quarrel born of a too close intimacy. 
The unpleasantness nearly reached a violent climax 
this morning. Mrs. Gibbons, Seldie and I were stroll- 
ing homeward from the letter-boxes when our atten- 
tion was attracted by the loud voices of angry men. 
Then followed a string of oaths at which Seldie, a 
good Catholic, shuddered violently, the while crossing 
herself piously, and at which Mrs. Gibbons was not 
in the least shocked as she constantly hears equally 
choice diction from her husband and Ed Frost. Nat- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 139 

urally, we paused to satisfy our curiosity. Near a 
forge which Mr. Barney has set up under the willows 
at Fleitmanhurst, we saw Loring and Greene, facing 
each other, exchanging compliments. The elder man 
looked a half-grown boy beside the younger one, who 
is tall, slender, firmly knit, and so strong that he 
could master the Professional Rester with one hand. 
We saw the gleam of a knife in Loring’s right hand, 
but only for an instant. Mr. Barney, raising a 
brown, lean arm, sent the weapon whirling into the 
bushes. Then, pushing Loring aside as easily as he 
would have pushed a child from his path, he bade 
Greene continue his work and not waste time with 
“that thief.” As Loring slunk off, Mr. Barney ex- 
plained his reason for using the adjective. Last year 
while he and some other settlers were repairing the 
county road, one man remarked that during the pre- 
vious night some pork had been stolen from a barrel 
outside of his shack. Whereupon Loring immedi- 
ately exclaimed : “It wasn’t me ; you can all see there’s 
no pork in my dinner pail.” 

Loring’s eagerness to declare his innocence con- 
vinced the other men of his guilt and next day one of 
them, making an excuse for calling at Loring’s house 
at noontime, found his wife cooking pork. As the 
family had not recently owned a pig nor had any 
money whatever, the concensus of opinion was that 
the head of the house was the culprit. This impres- 


140 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


sion was further strengthened several weeks later 
when the “sod widower” was awakened late one night 
by cries of pain coming from the direction of his pork 
barrel. There he found Loring with one of his hands 
caught in a trap set among the pieces of meat. The 
Nelsons made the mistake of releasing the thief from 
his embarrassing predicament without delaying to 
summon their neighbors. A pity, too. Ocular dem- 
onstration is so much more convincing than verbal 
testimony. 

After the excitement incident to the quarrel at 
Fleitmanhurst, Seldie, Evelyn and I went our sepa- 
rate ways. Richard and Seton had started early that 
morning for the Big Klickitat, expecting to remain 
there until evening, and hoping to catch a salmon. 
Since there was no luncheon to be prepared, I saun- 
tered homeward through the west “eighty,” taking 
the trail leading past Inspiration Point, a natural 
lawn running to a triangle overlooking a canyon, 
shaded by tall oaks and brightened by a lovely yellow 
flower of a species unknown to me. I often go there 
with the avowed purpose of reading but in reality to 
pass the time in day-dreaming. Collie goes, too, but 
of late the weather has been so excessively warm that, 
instead of chasing the squirrels or hunting the lizards 
residing thereabout, he lounges and dozes. That day 
I lingered long over the reading of my mail and sev- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 141 


eral times re-read one letter from a former society re- 
porter for a New York daily, who had recently 
married an Irish gentleman of great wealth. Charm- 
ing and unusual combination ! 

Since the day I was born with a mortgaged silver 
spoon in my mouth, I have felt the pinch of genteel 
poverty. And I have pined to ensnare the fancy of 
an Irish gentleman since I first encountered one of 
them between the covers of a Lever novel. Now that 
this reporter friend has a husband to take up all of 
her time and, just at first, her thoughts, she will 
probably forget to send the big bundles of periodicals 
on which she has been putting so many postage 
stamps that conscience reproached me every time 
that I counted their cost. 

Collie was not with me that day, having been told 
to remain at home and take care of the shack. He 
had been left inside the gate, looking wistfully 
through the bars, but was awaiting me just outside of 
it in company with the two Jims. The father had 
taken the blanket from the back of the cayuse and 
spread it upon the ground for his son to stretch him- 
self upon. Little Jim had been napping, but at Col- 
lie’s bark of welcome, he sprang upright and eagerly 
showed how nicely the wounded hand was healing. 

“Why don’t you go inside the gate and sit under 
the tent?” I asked, “I should have been back hours 


142 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


ago to feed Collie,” for a conscience-stricken glance 
at my wrist-watch told me that it was four hours 
after his customary luncheon time. 

Big Jim pointed to a small pink and white ging- 
ham figure beyond the tea tent : “We be here till she 
go ’way.” 

Not until I was close beside Evelyn Gibbons did 
I realize that she was crying. “Have you heard bad 
news since you left me?” I asked. 

“No — no.” She wiped her eyes and laughed ner- 
vously. “Only our shack’s so hot and ugly, and I’m 
so tired of cooking and — and — everything. I 
thought you’d gone for butter to the Blacke-McCor- 
micks or I wouldn’t have come over here. Good- 
bye.” She sprang up, pulled her sunbonnet far over 
her face, sped swiftly down the orchard’s slope to the 
forest bordering it and was soon lost to sight among 
the tall timber. For a moment I wondered if she had 
been quarreling with her husband, but dismissed the 
thought instantly, for never had I heard them speak 
other than kindly to or of one another. When Mrs. 
Gibbons had disappeared, the two Jims, escorted by 
Collie, approached the tea tent, and, after making 
certain that the well-borers could not hear him, the 
elder Indian said: “You make paper talk for me on 
little black box?” 

I nodded, and, leading the way to the living- 
room, got out the typewriter, adjusted the paper, 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 143 


and glanced inquiringly at Jim. He dictated: 

“Tell Sally come home. Little Jim cry for her. 
Big Jim want her.” 

“Sally been school. She know paper talk,” ex- 
plained the Indian. “She Goldendale now,” mention- 
ing a town about thirty miles distant. 

“But will she go to the post-office?” I asked, fear- 
ing disappointment for the two Jims. 

“Sally always ask Baldwin paper talk man what 
he got for her and she never get a paper talk in her 
life,” replied the aborigine. He seemed perfectly cer- 
tain that wherever his wandering spouse might go 
she would keep up her habit of demanding letters of 
postmasters. 

“Anyhow, it’s worth trying,” I remarked, and ad- 
dressed an envelope, but before it enclosed the letter, 
Big Jim dictated a postscript : “Tell Sally no come 
back soon, I take Lil’ Jim — go ’way.” Then, as 
though suddenly angered by the wife and mother’s 
desertion, “I wait no longer than full moon. She no 
come, we Jims gone.” 

“Sally will come the day she gets this paper talk,” 
I said, jumping up to go in search of Little Jim, who, 
wearied of exploring the interior of the shack, had 
opened the kitchen door. We found him standing 
close to the well-boring machinery, just as Gibbons, 
hastily moving backward, stumbled over Collie and 
kicked him viciously. As the dog howled, Little Jim 


144 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


clenched his tiny brown fists and struck furiously at 
the legs of the well-borer, crying: “I kill you. Him 
bully dog!” 

When the two Jims had departed with their letter, 
I ate my luncheon, then sought the lawn opposite the 
vegetable garden, and there passed the remainder of 
the sweltering afternoon, undisturbed by the familiar, 
steady grinding sound of the boring machinery. Col- 
lie, supposing that I was still inside the house, which 
is forbidden to him unless specially invited to enter 
it, remained close to the two machinists, unable to 
tear himself away from the proximity of humans, 
however unfriendly to himself, until near twilight 
when he turned the corner of the shack, probably 
having been inspired to desert the well-borers by an 
exceptionally violent hint from one or the other of 
them. Upon seeing me he uttered several short, 
softly modulated barks, which plainly said: “Why, 
I didn’t know you were out of doors or I’d have been 
with you long ago.” Then he dashed up to my chair, 
settled himself at my feet, and sighed happily. His 
thick, yellow coat warmed my ankles uncomfortably, 
yet whenever I moved them he pushed the closer, al- 
ways keeping one paw upon my toes. Is there any 
affection so sincere as that of a dog? Is it strange 
that those of us who have long loved and finally lost 
such a companion are inconsolable? 


CHAPTER XII 


After having scanned the skies for weeks in the 
hope of finding indications of rain, a shower sud- 
denly overtook me one afternoon — Collie and Lila 
were in attendance — and compelled me to seek shelter 
in the district schoolhouse, a twenty-by-thirty-foot 
frame structure with a vestibuled door opening into 
the only room. Two rows of double desks face a 
platform supporting an unpainted pine table, a chair, 
a blackboard and a revolving globe. 

On the platform sat the teacher. “Swede” Boye- 
sen’s younger children, looking like half-grown giants 
in contrast to the other scholars, sat next to the 
stove, which one of the girls was constantly stoking 
from the woodbox. As I entered, closely followed by 
the persistent Lila, a hulking youth of fourteen was 
reciting his history lesson. It was about Marco Polo, 
a personage whom he described as “a man that went 
round looking at all the new places in the world; 
then came home and told the rest of the people about 
them ; then those people went. After he done all that, 
he wrote a book.” The teacher, a commonplace 
young woman, did not criticize either the grammar of 
145 


146 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


the pupil or the account of the imaginatively gifted 
explorer. In truth, I gathered the impression that 
she did not suspect that Marco Polo was probably 
one of the greatest frauds known to the world’s his- 
tory. 

Fortunately, the scholars did not notice Lila’s 
presence as we entered the schoolroom, but Collie, 
whose personality always attracts attention, very 
nearly destroyed discipline. He was chasing a squir- 
rel at the time that Lila and I sought shelter and 
did not miss us for some minutes. Then he appeared 
with a bound that shook the- structure to its frail 
foundations. For a second he stood just within the 
door, his nose in the air, then, having located me at 
a far corner of the room, dashed forward, leaping 
recklessly over desks and overturning, in his career, 
an ink-well and a six-year-old scholar. I crowded 
Collie between my chair and the w^all, then raised 
my eyes to meet the displeased frown of the teacher. 
She is a slender little person, with brown hair brushed 
primly away from a large-featured face, and, on that 
occasion, wore the dull-hued cloth skirt and shirt- 
waist, which seem to grow on all schoolma’ams. But 
she also wore French-heeled, tightly fitting tan shoes, 
thus indicating a pleasing leaven of worldliness, 
which might have encouraged me to cultivate her ac- 
quaintance had not Richard, weeks ago, taken time 
by the forelock and warned me against inviting her 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 147 

here, in case I should ever encounter her. He firmly 
believes that most schoolteachers are at once ignor- 
ant and egotistical. Certainly that is a combination 
of faults impossible to reform. 

The present incumbent at the district school will 
probably become more popular with her pupils’ par- 
ents than did her predecessor. From Mr. Barney’s 
account she was a woman of business acumen and 
quickly realized, after coming to this region, that by 
wearing her old clothes, as well as washing them 
whenever necessary, she could save two-thirds of her 
salary and devote that money to the development of 
a homestead, which she was planning to settle upon. 
This claim is located within a mile of the schoolhouse, 
and her ambition offered the parents of this neigh- 
borhood an opportunity to do a deed of philanthropy 
by assuring the teacher that she could have the 
school for the ensuing three terms. Alas ! her su- 
perior breeding had won for her the dislike of the 
school trustees’ wives and the eternal enmity of Mrs. 
Blacke-McCormick. Consequently, she was not per- 
mitted to renew her contract at the end of her first 
term of service. During her farewell address to her 
pupils, delivered from the platform of the school- 
room on commencement day, she paid off her long 
score to the envious harpies. In no measured terms, 
but in language so impersonal that, as one of the 
aggrieved matrons afterward remarked: “We just 


148 APPLE WOMAN OP THE KLICKITAT 


had to sit there and listen to her without getting a 
chance to talk back,” she let each of her enemies know 
precisely what she thought of her. But she had to 
abandon her homesteading plan. 

Before reaching home that afternoon a second and 
heavier shower drenched us, much to the disgust of 
Lila. Like all of her kind, she dislikes to get wet 
only one degree less than she dislikes to earn a living 
by hunting mice and lizards. The long ramble in 
the cool air had made Collie so hungry that he eag- 
erly devoured the cereal and milk mixture scorned by 
him at breakfast time, while I prepared supper for 
myself. Richard and Seton had gone to Spokane to 
buy groceries from a wholesaler, and without hav- 
ing taken formal leave of the dog who appeared not 
to miss them until twilight began to settle into night. 
For a while he wandered restlessly between the shack 
and the gate. Not until darkness had obscured the 
trails would he consent to return indoors. Then, ap- 
parently having abandoned the idea of expecting 
the men of the house, he stretched himself before the 
stove and there remained until, after a final test of 
the window catches, I shut him into the lean-to and 
went to bed. Sleep came readily, but from it I was 
awakened by what sounded like a persistent knock- 
ing upon the rear door. Springing up, I drew on a 
kimono and lighted a candle, the while listening in- 
tently, and, truth to tell, with rapidly pounding 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 149 

heart. Again the knocking. The hands of the clock 
pointed to midnight and I wondered who could have 
found their way at so late an hour and on so dark a 
night to a shack almost a mile from the county road. 
Certainly it would be some person familiar with the 
trails through the woods. Yet not Mr. Barney or 
Mike. Either man would have shouted his own name 
while approaching the shack. No alarm came from 
Collie, who should have been barking furiously. 
Resolved to investigate, I extinguished the candle, 
firmly clutched the revolver, crossed the living-room, 
entered the kitchen, placed an ear to its outer door 
and listened. Not a sound came from without. As- 
sured that alarm was needless, I flung the door wide 
open. As it swung back, Collie darted past me and 
cut through the curtain of dense gloom hiding the 
outline of fences, forest and storehouse. He had 
hammered the floor with his tail to signal his wish 
to go forth and forage. No more was heard from 
him that night. Doubtless, he was hunting for straps 
about the farm-yard of the Professional Rester. 
When Collie has been for days without a bone, he 
seeks for discarded bits of harness. These he wor- 
ries to shreds with his sharp, white, young teeth. 
Anyhow, my alarm was unreasonable. A lone woman 
is safer on a ranch in a sparsely settled neighbor- 
hood than on the streets of a crowded city. No 
woman has been attacked in this region since the 


150 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


Whitman massacre of very many years ago, when 
the Indians were avowedly on the warpath. The 
woman who homesteaded *the Fleitmanhurst claim 
lived there absolutely alone for years after the mar- 
riage of her children, and never had a moment’s cause 
for alarm. Yet that shack is scarcely a rod from the 
main road, and from a great distance its lighted win- 
dows can be seen. 

Considerably nearer to this orchard stands a shack 
now deserted, but once occupied by a woman whose 
history — so much as we know of it — greatly amuses 
us. It is through a portion of this property that our 
illegal wagon track winds in order to connect us with 
the county road. The shack is superbly located upon 
a hill overlooking miles of wooded canyons and the 
Big Klickitat. In truth, this quarter section is val- 
uable for the views to be obtained from its elevations 
as well as for the many tillable acres which it in- 
cludes. Dozens of people have offered good prices for 
it, and the owner would gladly accept one of those 
offers were she able to furnish a satisfactory deed. 
She has, however, loved not wisely, but too fre- 
quently, and been five times married. Some of the 
helpmeets were divorced by her and others were de- 
serted by her, or vice versa. Anyhow, all of these men 
are alive, and, as the lady cannot definitely remember 
to which of them she was wedded at the time of ac- 
quiring the homestead, she remains in straightened 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 151 


circumstances, the while her land steadily increases 
in value. Richard cherishes the conviction that the 
woman homesteader was divorced or deserted by the 
five men and that she is a tarmagant. He quotes 
from Michael Morton’s dramatization of the “Resur- 
rection”: “I know she is guilty (of being a tarma- 
gant) ; all women are devils.” 

Beyond the absent homesteader’s weed-grown 
chicken-yard, fenced with decrepit wire netting, is a 
three-acre alfalfa patch, the favorite grazing ground 
for bands of wandering ponies and cattle. Not far 
from there is the shack, a three-room plank affair, set 
so close to the ground and so imperfectly battened 
that it must be a cold dwelling place in winter. 
Nearly always we step over the prostrate rails of the 
wrecked fence between the road and the clearing, and 
closely scan a home which has an uncanny fascination 
for us. Through the window nearest to its door 
may be seen the interior of the kitchen. It contains 
a range, several cheap chairs and a table, the latter 
strewn with dishes, as though someone had recently 
had a meal there. A wide-open inner door discloses a 
sparsely furnished living-room and beyond that a 
tiny chamber containing a calico-draped dressing- 
table and a neatly made bed. From without, the in- 
terior of the shack looks spotlessly clean, but a closer 
view would probably disclose the accumulated dust of 
many months. Yet it is quite possible that the many 


152 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


times married owner of this dwelling has been living 
in it at intervals within the past few weeks, and with- 
out the knowledge of her nearest neighbors. The 
families located north of that lonely home rarely 
drive along that road, and, unless at the time of their 
passing smoke were issuing from its chimney, thev 
might readily overlook other signs of occupancy. 

Of this woman’s quarter section the only cleared 
portion is the alfalfa patch and a treeless half-acre 
immediately surrounding the dwelling, store house 
and barn. Several large oaks lie prostrate in the 
wire-enclosed chicken-run, now so overgrown with 
brush that a fowl imprisoned there could easily find 
a nesting place beyond the reach of any person not 
provided with an axe and the strength to wield it. 
Just beyond this home clearing stretch acres of for- 
est, carpeted with pink and purple flowers. While 
wandering in these woods one day I came upon a 
ten-foot square enclosure, looking precisely like one 
of the private burial plots so frequently to be found 
on eastern farms. It was a most surprising discovery 
in this region, as thus far a white person is not 
known to have died here. A nearer view, however, 
showed that the fence surrounded a long-dried well, 
which, because situated in the heart of a forest, was 
enclosed in order to prevent accidents to persons un- 
familiar with this neighborhood. Anyone walking 
alone in these woods and falling into that hole would 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 153 


almost certainly perish of hunger, as cries for help 
would scarcely be heard by travelers on the nearest 
trail or road. Yesterday, after the return of Rich- 
ard and Seton, I again passed close to the forgotten 
well, and noticed an empty whiskey flask lying inside 
its fence, a fact which would seem to indicate that 
neighbor Loring had recently been carousing there- 
about. From the well, I wandered through the woods 
to Inspiration Point, and there spent the remainder 
of the afternoon alternately reading and watching 
the flickering shadows of the oak leaves upon the 
grass. The air was excessively warm and Collie lay 
panting at my feet. I had not invited him to accom- 
pany me, but shortly after I had left the shack Mr. 
Barney and several of the laborers watched him track 
me across the clearing. First he put his nose in the 
air, then sniffed about the ground from right to left, 
and, catching the scent, was soon on my trail. It 
would seem as though the dog might have preferred 
the excitement of watching the men roll huge oak logs 
from the edge of the clearing into a draw which flanks 
its west side, especially as he would have had the com- 
panionship of “Spottee,” the white-patched “near” 
terrier of Mike. That Collie prefers the society of 
a woman to that of his own kind and a half-dozen men 
of almost as many different nationalities, seems to me 
to be an additional proof of his unusual intelligence 
and innate refinement. Richard thinks differently. 


154 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


He says that Collie flatters me into giving him extra 
food. Would that this flattery could be better re- 
paid. It is a fortnight since the dog has seen a bone, 
and he is so fed up with a cereal-and-milk diet that 
he eats that mixture only in preference to going hun- 
gry- 

To-morrow morning I shall start on a hunting 
trip — for photographs with which to illustrate a 
magazine story on fruit raising in the Pacific North- 
west. The trip will involve a six-mile walk to Bald- 
win, a ten-mile journey on a river steamer to The 
Dalles and a night’s stay — probably in discomfort — 
somewhere along the Columbia. But the money 
promised for the article will do its bit toward devel- 
oping my obscession — this orchard on a hilltop fac- 
ing Mt. Hood. 


CHAPTER XIII 


If Seton Postley, in accordance with his original 
itinerary, is to visit the Yellowstone on his way east, 
he would better be starting soon, for we are now well 
into November and his college term has long since 
begun. Despite the fact that he is an ideal guest and 
that we shall greatly miss him when he has finally de- 
parted, it is clear that he should be listening to lec- 
tures in Princeton’s halls, instead of drying dishes at 
an apple orchard between the intervals of talking 
French with Evelyn Gibbons. Seton has been tak- 
ing what he calls “conversation lessons in French” 
from the young wife of the well-borer for several 
weeks past; to be exact, from the instant she re- 
marked that her mother was of French extraction, 
and had taught her to say a few things in that 
tongue. Obviously hearing those few things con- 
stantly repeated is what detains Seton in Klickitat. 
Seldie said as much to me a fortnight ago and ever 
since I have been worried. 

“He knows that he’ll have to be returning to 
Princeton soon,” said Richard, when informed of my 
reason for wishing to speed the lingering guest. “As 

155 


156 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


it is, he’ll need a coach to get him abreast of this 
term’s lectures.” 

“Of late he never mentions his alma mater.” 

“Oh, well, it’s just a boyish fancy for the only 
good-looking woman in this neighborhood,” replied 
Richard ungallantly, and with the easy superiority 
of mental attitude which distinguishes the worldly 
man of middle age. “Seton will have forgotten all 
about that little bunch of nothing within a fortnight 
after leaving here.” Yet Richard knows that the 
Postleys do not forget easily. 

“Seton hasn’t the faintest idea of leaving. When- 
ever I try to lead his thoughts back to his home and 
his college by talking of trains and timetables and 
Pullman reservations, he looks at me blankly, as 
though he had never heard of such matters. He can’t 
stop on here forever,” I continued irritably. “It — 
this isn’t the proper way for the heir to millions of 
dollars to live. Moreover, the neighbors will talk 
about his attentions to the well-borer’s wife.” 

“The neighbors can’t reasonably gossip about that 
girl and Seton,” replied Richard. “You’re always 
tagging along whenever they go for one of those 
French conversazione rambles, which appear to be 
worrying you so much.” 

“I always try to be with them,” I admitted 
brazenly, “but don’t always manage to. Anyhow, 
the gossip of country neighbors never is governed by 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 157 


reason.” Roused to further irritation by the vex- 
atious situation, I added: “When making that con- 
tract with Gibbons to bore a well for me, I didn’t 
expect him to bring here a fascinating young wife 
for me to chaperone.” 

Richard suddenly became serious. “If Gibbons 
ever gets jealous, he’ll make things lively for Seton. 
When a man of his type gets so wrapped up as he is 
in that little woman, he doesn’t stop short of killing 
the object of his jealousy. And Seton doesn’t mean 
any harm.” 

“Neither one of those French conversationalists 
means any harm, but that doesn’t lessen my responsi- 
bility,” I retorted gloomily, then hastened to con- 
tort m} r features into a welcoming grin, as Seton’s 
cheery whistle and Collie’s bark announced their re- 
turn from Letter Box Grove. 

In addition to the usual packets of letters and 
bundles of periodicals, Seton was laden with news of 
local importance. “Old Man Baldwin,” as he was 
familiarly and affectionately called, had died the day 
before, and was to be buried on the morrow near 
the village. Every neighbor was expected to attend 
the funeral — the first to be held in this region and 
accounted a social event. The preparations for it' 
had been under way for some days before the old set- 
tler’s death, which was entirely due to his advanced 
age. His progress out of the world was not aided nor 


158 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


retarded by a physician, because none lives within 
call. 

“I knew you wouldn’t go to the funeral, Richard,” 
explained Seton, “and said as much to Mrs. Blacke- 
McCormick, who seems to have taken charge of the 
delegation from this section of the county.” Then he 
addressed me directly: “The log house lady has as- 
signed you a seat in a hack with those Oelsens, the 
new Swedes who live next to Rawle. And Rawle’s to 
drive Miss Seldon, the Gibbons’ and me to Baldwin, 
in his freight wagon. But as he isn’t coming back 
here to-morrow, I’ve sent a note to Mr. Tanner ask- 
ing him to secure a carriage large enough to bring 
six people home late to-morrow afternoon.” 

The “new Swedes,” as the Oelsens are called, quite 
properly describe themselves as Americans, since 
both of them were born and reared in Dakota. They 
came for me the following morning. The wife, who 
has bovine brown eyes, a dull, moon-shaped face and 
barely five feet of height, was at first exceedingly 
shy, and replied to my remarks in monosyllables, 
tacked to “ma’am,” until we reached the top of Mul- 
len Hill. There an approaching pair of horses draw- 
ing an unwieldy wagon, forced our vehicle to the 
outer edge of the road, which is also the edge of the 
precipice, and my frankly expressed fear of being 
spilled into eternity via de Petrio Canyon greatly 
amused her and effectively broke the shell of the si- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 159 

lence that held her. For the remainder of the drive 
to Baldwin, she chattered unceasingly about the re- 
gion and the neighbors, especially the women. Al- 
though she has lived hereabout for barely a fort- 
night she seems to know everything about every- 
body in the county. Realizing that a person so well 
posted and so loquacious is likely to prove a danger- 
ous one in a small community, and, fearing to be 
misquoted to her next audience, I, in turn, became 
monosyllabic, minus the “ma’am.” 

Since Baldwin boasts neither church nor school- 
house, the funeral services for the pioneer who gave 
that hamlet its name were held close to the Columbia 
river in the grove where Seton had first caught a 
glimpse of Mrs. Gibbons. Behind the rows of chairs 
occupied by the settlers, wearing cheap “store” 
clothes, was a line of Indians in gaudy blankets. Be- 
yond the aborigines could be seen the still darker 
faces, crowned by tall turbans, of a score or so of 
Hindoo laborers employed by the Northern Pacific 
Railway Company. In marked contrast to the rest- 
less movements and sibilant whisperings of the white 
members of the assemblage was the dignified repose of 
the Indians and the Hindoos. Those representatives 
of an aboriginal race and an alien race stood like 
graven images and listened intently while John Tan- 
ner, as usual bare-headed, read the prayers for the 
dead and Seldie sang a hymn, although few of them 


160 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


could have understood the meaning of the words, 
which at times were drowned by the clanging bell of a 
shifting engine in the adjacent railway yards or the 
shrill whistle of a steamer on the Columbia. After 
the services were over with and “friends wishing to 
look at the remains” had filed past the casket, the 
old pioneer was borne by relatives to his final rest- 
ing place in an adjacent field. Quietly the Indians 
and Hindoos faded from the scene while tables were 
set for the open-air luncheon, to which each settler 
had contributed. 

“To think of Old Man Baldwin not owning six 
feet of earth to be buried in,” observed Mr. Mont- 
morenci Jones, who sat beside me. “He gave this 
village its name and at one time owned the land that 
it stands upon, but he was in too big a hurry to sell 
out to Arthur Dalfour, an English capitalist. While 
the Spokane, Portland and Seattle road was build- 
ing, folks round here kept saying that some day 
Dalfour’d get Jim Hill, but it came the other way 
round, because, after the railroad got as far as this, 
whatever portion of Dalfour’s holdings were needed 
were sold to it under a condemnation suit, and at a 
lower figure than his, too.” 

“Them North Bank fellers can fence in Baldwin 
when they like, an’ none of us fellers dassent try to 
prevent ’em from doin’ of it. They own all but a 
few streets what had been recorded, an’ two or three 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 161 


town lots,” explained Mr. Mat Bollen, second oldest 
settler in Klickitat. 

“Couldn’t you move the village?” I hazarded. 

Mr. Bollen removed his knife from his mouth to 
ask: “Whar to? See,” pointing with his blade up 
and down the Columbia, “them high bluffs to the east 
an’ west runs sheer to the water’s edge an’ wouldn’t 
give foothold to a goat. An’ behind us is Dalfour’s 
basin. Baldwin jes’ has to be whar it is — or no- 
whar.” 

Mrs. Blacke-McCormick, decorated with her 
D. A. R. jewelry, and seated at the opposite side of 
the table, transfixed Mr. Mat Bollen with her hard 
gray eyes, and said with an air of finality, which 
effectually suppressed that citizen for the remainder 
of the meal: “The railroad company ain’t got a 
thing to do with this village and it can’t be moved 
because there’s always been a trading place at this 
point.” She doubtless meant to convey the informa- 
tion that there has been a boat landing of sorts and 
a supply store near the present by-the-grace-of-the- 
North-Bank-Railway village since white men first be- 
gan to settle along the banks of the Columbia. 

“Mebbe you think the railroad ain’t done this part 
of Klickitat no good,” observed Seldie from her post 
of honor at the head of our table. 

Past experience has convinced Mrs. Blacke-Mc- 
Cormick of the unwisdom of engaging in a tilt of 


162 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


words with Seldie. Therefore she deliberately pre- 
sented a broad black taffeta back to her enemy’s 
gaze and proceeded to lead conversation at our end 
of the board by talking about the well at the colonial 
replica in logs: “It’s four hundred feet deep and 
cost Mr. Blacke-McCormick nearly two thousand 
dollars.” 

“The infernal liar !” muttered the real estate gen- 
tleman beside me after purposely dropping a spoon 
upon the ground and recovering it by stooping close 
to my ear. 

“That’s a great deal of money,” continued the 
Illinois D. A. R. member, this time directly address- 
ing me. I did consider the sum mentioned a great 
deal of money and many hundred dollars more than 
the actual cost of the vaunted well. Moreover, she 
had several times previously said something of the 
sort to me. “I hear you ain’t struck no water yet,” 
she added, with a note of triumph in her voice. “As 
you’re likely paying for your ranch in instalments, 
my advice is to throw the whole quarter section back 
on to the man you bought it off’n of. A place with- 
out water’s no good.” The last remark is a favorite 
one with all of the McCormicks and is worked on 
every possible occasion. 

“In less’n a week my boss’ll have plenty of water 
on her place and then her ranch’ll be good enough 
for anybody. From what I see of your seepage 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 163 


well, it’ll likely dry up any day.” These remarks 
emanated from Mr. Barney, who had been assigned 
to a place at our table by Seldie, inspired by an 
amiable wish to annoy Mrs. Blacke-McCormick, who 
considers our foreman what he considers himself — an 
upper servant It is the sole point on which the two 
are in accofd. 

Mrs. Blacke-McCormick, disdaining to reply to 
the remarks of a person so low in the social scale 
as is Mr. Barney, proceeded to cross-examine me in 
regard to Seton Postley, who, seated at a distant 
table, was beyond earshot. My monosyllabic replies 
must have proved annoying to her as she eventually 
changed to another seat, not, however, before giving 
Seldie and I to understand that while Klickitat so- 
ciety was getting “dreadful mixed” there was not the 
faintest hope that we could ever break into it. In 
order that I might have a cheering word to bear to 
Richard, she added that, aside from her husband, 
the only other gentleman hereabout is Mr. Sidney 
Talman, a young man of independent fortune and 
notoriously idle habits, who maintains bachelor hall 
on a ranch about three miles to the west of us. He 
chiefly lives at Baldwin and passes his days in loafing 
about its sole livery stable. 

Luncheon over with, Evelyn Gibbons, Seldie and 
Seton announced that they had errands at the gen- 
eral store. While awaiting their pleasure, I wan- 


164 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


dered about the village, and eventually encountered 
the ex-wife of Francis Rawle, who invited me into 
her home — the shack at the back of her store — for 
a cup of hot tea. There we were joined by the man 
for whom she had deserted her husband and the little 
home in the hills. The affinity, a gaunt, unshaven, 
shambling, collarless creature, stood in cracked pat- 
ent kid pumps and carried with affected jauntiness a 
thread-bare cutaway suit. The woman’s peevishly 
coquettish manner toward this man would have been 
droll amid different surroundings. It was pathet- 
ically grotesque in the shed which she dignifies by 
the term “dining-room.” Her clawlike brown hands, 
jaundiced face, dust-hued straggling locks and atten- 
uated figure in its tawdry finery made a forlorn pic- 
ture not easily forgotten. She had invested the whole 
of her three-thousand-dollar share of her ex-hus- 
band’s estate in the little store which has just been 
taken over by a creditor who has assumed her ac- 
counts against various homesteaders together with 
the depleted stock of the place. This action leaves 
her free to go forth and work out her own salvation 
and, incidentally, a livelihood, as best she can. In 
less than five years after forsaking the ranch near 
Mullen Hill’s brow she is homeless, penniless and 
without a shred of the youthful bloom that attracted 
the loafer for whose sake she sacrificed her own 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 165 

chance of happiness and those of the good man who 
entrusted to her the honor of his name. 

“What is Baldwin etiquette for a divorced husband 
and wife?” I later on inquired of Mr. Tanner. “This 
village is so tiny that the various pairs of persons 
now legally separated must meet a dozen times 
daily.” The query was prompted by the sight of 
Francis Rawle driving his four horses past his ex- 
wife’s residence while she was seated on its doorstep. 

“Divorced couples livin’ here jest has to get hard- 
ened to meetin’,” replied the white-haired old pioneer. 
“If they w r anted to avoid one another, where could 
they go?” 

I shook my head. 

“When anybody does anything in this village,” 
continued the old pioneer, “everybody else knows all 
about it — immediate. They all on ’em hear every- 
thin’ that’s said and see near everythin’ that’s done. 
They know when I change my mind. If I wanted to 
tell you a secret w r e’d have to go to the woods.” 

This lack of privacy was further impressed upon 
me as we were about to start for home. “She ain’t 
too much tickled about somethin’,” remarked Mr. 
Jack Gibbons, motioning with his unkempt hand 
tow T ard an Indian girl seated on the ground near the 
larger store. With her small brown hands the 
young aborigine hugged her knees as she rocked 
her slender, lithe body. Her coarse, long, black locks 


166 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


streamed over her shoulders, tears literally washed 
her full cheeks and at intervals she loudly moaned. 
Around her stood several matronly looking squaws, 
regarding her intently, silently. One of these Indian 
women wheeled sharply and stepped directly in front 
of the grief-stricken girl as though to shield her 
from the curious gaze of Mrs. Blacke-McCormick, 
who fairly shouldered her way into the circle of 
aboriginals. 

“Is that young person sick?” inquired the leader 
of Klickitat society in her sharp, authoritative 
tones. 

“She love one Injun man — he go ’way,” was the 
explanation of the squaw who was trying to protect 
the weeping girl from the white woman’s hard eyes. 

“The idee of her worryin’ like that! Why don’t 
she rustle round an’ corral another beau, bein’ as 
how one Injun’s just as bad as another!” philoso- 
phized Mr. Gibbons. 

“Wouldn’t that jar you?” whispered Seton, who 
had just come to my other side. Then he addressed 
the well-borer: “Are you quite ready to start for 
home, Mr. Gibbons? The hack is here.” 

“Ain’t goin’ home to-night. Me an’ my wife’ll 
stay at the hotel an’ ride up with the mail-carrier 
to-morrow morning,” was the gracious reply. 

Although Seton was surprised at this sudden 
change of plan on the part of Mr. Gibbons, he merely 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 167 

remarked that he was sorry not to have the pleasure 
of his society on our return trip. He then assisted 
me to the front seat of Mr. Tanner’s hack and 
beside Mr. Mat Bollen, whom the storekeeper had 
employed to drive us home. 

“Who is that Indian girl?” I inquired in a low 
tone. 

Mr. Bollen glanced over the heads of the circle of 
squaws toward the slender figure that was still rock- 
ing itself to and fro upon the ground, and his faded, 
kindly blue eyes were moist as he explained : “That’s 
Sally, what’s married to Big Jimmy. He has jest 
went away an’ took their kid with him an’ no one 
don’t know whar they’ve gone. Seems that he sent 
her a paper talk sayin’ as how he’d forgive her for 
gettin’ mad with him if she’d come back before the 
full of the moon. But Sally didn’t get the letter 
until this mornin’. Now that she’s come back, she’s 
too late. But, shucks; we’ve had ’nough of mourn- 
fulness for one day. Let’s talk about somethin’ 
cheerin’.” 

Mr. Mat Bellen’s further discourse was so enter- 
taining and his management of the lively pair of 
cayuses so skilful that I forgot my fears of the nar- 
row road running parallel with the railway tracks 
and became interested in watching the gangs of 
Hindoos working upon them. These dark-skinned, 
aquiline-featured, tall, gaunt men may be seen at 


168 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


early morning, high noon or twilight along the banks 
of the Columbia and the Big Klickitat, engaged in 
washing as much of their apparel as can modestly be 
discarded at one time. Whatever money they save is 
probably concealed in the turban which apparently 
never is removed and which, if not originally black, 
has been made so by grime and soot. Whenever 
these exiles wish to buy anything they wander about 
a store until the article is discovered and then point 
to it. Few of them learn to speak English, but all 
of them know American money values. 

“Nobody can’t cheat them niggers,” said Mr. 
Bollen, “but anybody could do them two Dalfour 
boys what used ter live there.” With an airy wave 
of his whip he indicated a house standing on a bluff 
at the east of Baldwin, and overlooking that aggre- 
gation of shacks and wall tents as well as the Co- 
lumbia which flows past it. The gabled-roofed house 
is the most pretentious edifice this region boasts, 
although its painted walls have faded from yellow 
to grimy white and its curtainless, blindless windows 
stare like sightless eyes. “Folks round here used to 
say that Arthur Dalfour — that’s the name of them 
boys’ pa — was a big iron master in England, same’s 
our Andy Carnegie. I guess he bought all that land 
on both sides of the Big Klickitat, includin’ the 
Baldwin town site, so’s ter have some place to send his 
boys ter. He told a feller here that they was each on 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 169 

’em a-spendin’ one thousand pounds — that’s five 

thousand dollars in our money ” he interpolated 

for the general instruction of his passengers — “a 
year in London, an’ thought that half that money’d 
ought to keep ’em comfortable in Klickitat, while 
they was developin’ the land an’ learnin’ how to 
work.” 

According to our cicerone, this scheme of the 
British ironmaster’s was half successful. Johnny, 
the younger of the brothers Dalfour, took an active 
interest in the ranch and was up early mornings, 
following the laborers about the place and superin- 
tending their work. Billy stayed in bed most of 
the day and spent the remainder of it in lounging 
about the house and smoking a pipe. Throughout 
the summers they entertained relays of English and 
American guests, for the substantially furnished 
house was cared for by a well-trained staff of domes- 
tics ; fish, game and fruit were abundant, and the 
stables sheltered many good horses. During the 
autumn Billy temporarily flung aside his lassitude 
and organized hunting parties to Mount Adams and 
other points within fifty miles of Baldwin. In those 
halcyon days such sport equaled any to be had west 
of the Rockies. 

For ten years the Dalfour boys, as they were 
familiarly known to the Baldwin residents, lived on 
their American holdings, whereon Johnny planted 


170 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


and raised a quantity of fine grapes and apples. 
But because, at that time, no railway passed near 
to the village, and no steamers stopped regularly at 
its wharf, these crops could not be marketed. 
Eventually the trees and vines were taken from the 
ground and the entire property given over to the 
breeding of horses. Then came a day when the house 
was dismantled, and placed in charge of a caretaker. 
The Dalfour boys bade farewell to their Klickitat 
friends and departed for England. Rumor says that 
Billy, to prove that he could summon sufficient en- 
ergy for the pursuit of whatever he deemed worth the 
trouble, subsequently married a Russian lady of title, 
beauty and wealth. Johnny remains a bachelor, and 
fancy free so far as Klickitat county knows of his 
recent history. 

Having disposed of the brothers Dalfour, Mr. 
Bollen began to talk about himself as I had been 
sure that he ultimately would, since men are the 
most confiding creatures on earth and ready to tell 
their life history to whatever woman is willing to 
listen to it. The biography which this under-sized, 
wrinkled, wiry old pioneer related was one of adven- 
ture from start to finish. He was a mere lad when 
he started west in the early fifties, crossed the Mis- 
souri at Omaha, walked across the plains and the 
great American desert. “In the sixties, when I went 
a-visitin’ back east,” he said, “we traveled by a good 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 171 


wagon road through a peaceful country. In them 
days the Injuns was peaceable and they stayed so 
until the whites deviled ’em.” He chortled merrily. 
“We certainly did have lively times with ’em later.” 

When we reached de Petrio Canyon, Mat Bollen 
remarked: “Old Mother Natur’ was just a-kickin’ 
up ructions when she made that thar slit.” Then 
he explained that the vast gulley was named in honor 
of the de Petrio family, who were among the earliest 
white settlers in Klickitat county. The first de 
Petrio was an Italian employed by the Hudson Bay 
Company. Wandering inland from the Columbia, 
until he came upon land promising an abundance of 
water, he took up a quarter section at the head of 
the great canyon which now bears his name and 
built there a log cabin, to which he brought his bride. 
She was the daughter of a settler living on the bank 
of the Columbia below what is now the village of 
Hood River, Oregon. As her father was a French- 
man and her mother the daughter of a Frenchman 
and a Klickitat woman, the young Italian’s bride 
was three-quarters French and one-quarter Indian. 
The aboriginal strain plainly shows in the high cheek 
bones, coppery complexion and dull, straight black 
hair of her sons. “For all they talk an’ dress an’ 
act like we-folks, anyone would know them two de 
Petrio boys for Injuns,” declared Mr. Bollen. “Yet 
their ma, who’s more Injun than they be, looks like 


172 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


an American. Why,” he added suddenly, “Mis’ de 
Petrio was a-settin’ in a hack outside the post-office 
this afternoon. Don’t you remember seein’ her?” 

We distinctly remembered seeing the woman de- 
scribed and had remarked upon her refined appear- 
ance, delicately moulded features, clear brunette com- 
plexion and modishly arranged gray-streaked brown 
hair. Because of the care given to every detail of 
her toilet we had mentally labeled her a city woman 
stopping with friends in the neighborhood. 

“Mis’ de Petrio’s grandchildren looks like reg’lar 
little Injuns,” continued the local historian, “for all 
their calico aprons an’ tan shoes. If they was wear- 
in’ blankets an’ moccasins you couldn’t tell ’em from 
the kids o’ Josie Skookum’s pals.” Mr. Bollen then 
explained that many of those early river men were 
French employees of the Hudson Bay Company and 
that from them have descended the numerous fam- 
ilies hereabout who bear French names but show un- 
mistakable evidences of aboriginal ancestry. In the 
old days it was a common thing for a river man or a 
trader to acquire an Indian helpmeet and rear a 
family. These breeds nearly always married 
amongst the white settlers and lived in a civilized 
manner. Consequently the contemporary or third 
generation is an amazing mixture of Swede, German, 
French, Portuguese, Italian, Slav and Indian blood. 
Not infrequently one of these people will evidence the 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 173 

aboriginal strain in high cheek hones and a dark 
skin, the Saxon in light eyes and brown hair, and the 
Latin in a love for dress and diversions. 

Several specimens of this mixture of races live in 
Klickitat county. The younger members of these 
families not only assume a position of equality with 
the settlers from the east but take unto themselves 
airs of exclusiveness, greatly to the amusement or 
the exasperation of those unadulterated Caucasians 
who cherish a prejudice against hybrids. The an- 
cient pioneer drew from his trousers’ pocket a small, 
leather-bound case. “This here’s a picter of the 
squaw of Colonel Mitchell, an old forty-niner pal 
o’ mine.” He went on to say that the Colonel had 
partially succeeded in civilizing his squaw as was 
evidenced by the daguerreotype which shows her in 
the full-frilled bonnet and the embroidered visite of 
the fifties. On the lap of her flounced skirt, this 
red lady holds her first-born son. Despite the kid- 
slippered little feet, a daintily embroidered linen 
frock, his mother’s garb and a civilized “back drop,” 
this infant is the replica of the papooses swathed in 
rags and strapped to boards borne on the backs of 
the Klickitat squaws of to-day. The descendants 
of this pioneer Colonel and his Indian wife dwell near 
the Columbia river on a place formerly owned by a 
wealthy Irishman, his wife and young sons. From 
their forest properties these aristocratic hermits 


174 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


culled enough logs of matching size to build a huge 
cabin which they equipped with deep-chested fire- 
places and furnished in primitive manner. Skins 
covered the floors, trophies of the chase adorned the 
walls and gayly colored blankets draped settles and 
chairs. Each member of the family was devoted to 
hunting, but it was the mother’s rifle and rod that 
furnished meat and fish for a large household com- 
prising a secretary, a tutor and a staff of British 
domestics. 

“Colonel Mitchell an’ his wife’s got so high-toned 
they don’t notice the likes o’ me nowadays, but me 
an’ that Irish lady what used to own their place 
was big pals,” continued Mr. Bollen. “We went 
a-huntin’ together frequent an’ pretty near alius 
had luck. As soon as we’d get near the house, 
she’d begin whistlin’ for her boys. Them little fellers 
alius carried sheath knives at their belts an’ it was 
plum amazin’ how quick they’d skin a dead creetur 
without injurin’ of its pelt. The purtiest hides was 
used for floor an’ bed covers, an’ the others for chaps 
an’ moccasins.” 

What must have been an idyllic existence was per- 
force terminated when the boys reached college age. 
The family returned to Ireland, leaving their Pacific 
Northwest ranch, its big log cabin and its unique 
furnishings in the hands of an agent to be sold to 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 175 

the first person who would pay a reasonable price 
for it 

“How’s that fer a barn?” Mr. Bollen indicated a 
structure toppling close to the road beyond the north 
rim of de Petrio canyon. The building is of logs 
placed so far apart that no windows are needed, 
since the sun shines into it as freely as the winds 
blow through it. The winter sleets and rains readily 
chill the animals which the edifice is supposed to 
shelter. “Few Injuns take extra care of their stock 
but that buck and squaw what owns this homestead 
is awful shif’less, even fer redskins. Don’t you never 
lend ’em nothin’ fer you won’t never get it back. An’ 
the only way to keep from lendin’ — which means 
givin’ ’em — things is not to git too friendly. Their 
house ain’t much better’n their barn,” he added. 
Following the direction of his whip-handle, wp saw 
a weather-beaten shack set far back from the high- 
way and showing no indications of being occupied. 
“Guess the Injun an’ his squaw has went away,” 
surmised Mr. Bollen. “Lots of ’em goes to the 
mountains at this season an’ takes all their belong- 
ing with ’em. If we was to break into that shack 
now we wouldn’t find so much as a rusty pan. Tell 
you what it is, lady, the one way to get ahead in this 
country is to keep everlastin’ly on the job. No one 
can’t afford to turn their back upon their homestead 


176 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


fer a week. I s’pose,” he queried, eyeing me 
sharply, “you’ve waded a lot o’ shoal places sense 
you took up orchardin’. Well,” giving my hand an 
encouraging pat, “stick to it, never lookin’ back 
once, an’ you’ll win out. Four years from the time 
you planted them trees you’ll be eating a few big 
red apples what growed upon ’em. The next year 
you’ll have more apples, and the year after that — 
the good Lord permittin’ — you’ll pick an income 
off’n that hillside orchard at Mira-Monte.” I am 
sure Mr. Bollen is right. Anyhow, only sure defeat 
shall ever make me abandon apple-growing ! 


CHAPTER XIV 


Since the funeral of Old Man Baldwin, Evelyn 
Gibbons has not been once to this ranch nor have 
we seen her at the letter boxes. Seton has not men- 
tioned her name to either Richard or myself and we 
do not know whether or not he has seen her within 
the past few days. Gibbons is more than ever morose 
and scowling but this may be for the reason that the 
machine has been drilling through a strata of rock 
so hard that the outfit has not earned the wage of 
one man. This morning he tried to make an excuse 
for permanently stopping work upon the well, say- 
ing that he knew we were tired of having him upon 
the place. We are. Nevertheless he was assured 
that it is not now our intention to abandon the bor- 
ing effort to obtain water and that in case he breaks 
the contract by stopping without our consent no 
more money will be forthcoming. Unable to draw 
any of us into an altercation, Gibbons sulkily re- 
turned to his position at the back of the machine 
and we departed for Letter Box Grove. There we 
found an unusually large gathering of settlers, 
among them Mrs. Blacke-McCormick, who of late 

177 


178 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


comes daily to meet the mail-carrier. Her first re- 
mark was launched at Richard: “Well, Mr. Van 
Cortlandt, what do you think of the doings and the 
carryings-on of the married women round here?” 

“Most of the married women living hereabout have 
so much work to occupy them that they haven’t time 
to devote to ‘doings and carryings-on,’ ” Richard 
replied, the while looking appealingly toward Seldie, 
who was prompt with the desired aid. 

“That’s dead right,” said Seldie. “The house- 
keeper living in this neighborhood has all that she 
can do to mind her own business and do it well. The 
woman that’s got time to watch her neighbors is 
running a pretty slack-looking place.” 

“That Gibbons woman oughtn’t to be let stay in 
this neighborhood — if half that folks say about her 
is the truth,” persisted Mrs. Blacke-McCormick, 
again addressing herself to Richard. 

“If any persons in this neighborhood are slander- 
ing Mrs. Gibbons — and whatever evil is said about 
her must be a slander — they would best not talk 
within the hearing of Mr. Gibbons,” replied Richard, 
then, turning toward Mr. Blacke-McCormick and 
directly addressing him: “The man who traduces 
that little woman is likely to have his system filled 
full of shot from Gibbons’ gun.” 

“They’ve got no property here and oughtn’t to be 
living here getting the money that should be going 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 179 

to decent folks,” said Mrs. Blacke-McCormick, her 
voice trembling with anger. 

Seldie saw her opportunity and seized it. “So 
you’ve gone into the well-boring business ! You can 
come down to my place and bore whenever you’re 
able to prove that you can deliver the goods.” 

The leading lady of the county glared at Seldie 
and might have said something not commensurate 
with the dignity of an Illinois D. A. R. had not Mrs. 
James Greene created a diversion — not because she 
is a natural peacemaker but because she adores 
imparting news : “There’s word of Injun Jim,” she 
announced. “Mike, the Eyetalian, met him and 
little Jim yesterday at The Dalles and told him how 
Sally’s hunting for them two all over the county, 
and is near crazy because she can’t find them. Mike 
offered to pay their fare if they’d come along home 
with him that minute, so Big Jim picked up the kid 
and come straight along.” 

“How did Mike know about Sally?” asked Percy 
Nelson. 

“He was at Baldwin the day of the funeral and 
when he made Injun Jim understand about the way 
that squaw felt because she hadn’t got that paper 
talk in time, he couldn’t get back there fast enough. 
When the two Jims got to Josie Skookum’s shack 
last night Sally wasn’t there. She’d took one of the 
cayuses an’ gone lookin’ for them up-country. Now 


180 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


nobody can tell when she’ll be this way again and 
Injun Jim’s just wild. It certainly is surprising 
how easy folks can lose one another in this country ! 
There was Sally taking on like mad down at Baldwin 
the other day and thinking that the two Jims was 
lost to her forever, and all the while — Mike says — 
they were just a few miles up the Columbia. Big 
Jim was working for a Clackamas Injun fisherman, 
living this side of The Dalles, and little Jim was 
playing every day along the banks of the river where 
any of us traveling on a steamer could have seen 
him. And that Clackamas Injun’s w r ife didn’t even 
know that Big Jim had a wife living.” 

Mrs. Blacke-McCormick spoke in her most ma- 
jestic manner: “It was exceedingly strange that 
that Clackamas squaw did not know whether or not 
Big Jim had a wife. I can’t understand such in- 
difference.” 

“Certainly you can’t,” agreed Seldie. “Indians 
are too well mannered to butt into other folks’ busi- 
ness.” Having routed her foe, she plunged into a 
highly colored description of the improvements she 
was making at her boarding camp, thereby holding 
the interest of the by-standers until the coming of 
the mail-carrier. 

As we were separating, after receiving our mail, 
Seldie hissed in my ear: “Those cat ladies didn’t 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 181 


get a second chance to-day to tear Evelyn Gibbons 
to bits !” 

So accustomed bad we become to the sound and 
the vibrations caused by the heavy machinery at the 
rear of the shack that I was not aware that they bad 
ceased until a resounding knock summoned me to 
the kitchen door late that afternoon. The well- 
borer stood on the step and his dark, coarse-featured 
face was radiant as that of a pictured archangel’s. 
“I’ve struck water,” he announced, trying to speak 
indifferently but unable to keep a jubilant note out 
of his voice. 

“How much water?” I inquired, being a person 
of small faith in the statements of the lower strata 
of society. 

“Lots of it.” 

“Is it good water?” 

“Clear as crystal. Will I stop boring or will I 
go on?” ungrammatically inquired Mr. Gibbons. 

“If you continue to bore, will there be danger of 
losing the water?” 

“There ain’t the slightest danger of losing the 
water. The flow might be even stronger if I was 
to go on for another few feet.” 

“Continue work for another hour,” I said, anxious 
to get the advice of Richard, who, with Seton, had 
gone over to Fleitmanhurst to superintend some 


182 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


slight repairs to the well of that place. Without 
delaying to change my house shoes for substantial 
footgear, I ran across the trail to the well-borer’s 
temporary home. Richard, Mr. Barney and Mike 
were gathered near the forge; Mrs. Barney was 
washing clothes under the willows; Evelyn Gibbons 
and Seton were seated side by side upon a log watch- 
ing the Barney children build block forts. 

“Guess what has happened — everyone!” was my 
greeting. 

“They’ve struck water,” accurately guessed Mr. 
Barney. “Someone had ought to go right away an’ 
tell Mrs. Blacke-McCormick, ’cause she’ll be that 
tickled to hear of your luck that she’d ought to be 
give plenty of time to think up somethin’ specially 
nasty to say before the two of you meet next time.” 

“Bravo !” shouted Mike. He tossed his flower- 
decked cap into the air, caught it deftly, then swung 
the Barney baby upon one shoulder and danced 
about to the music of his own voice. 

“Good!” exclaimed Richard. 

“Thank God !” said Mrs. Barney as she dried her 
hands preparatory to shaking mine in congratula- 
tion. “It’s fierce to have to pack water for house- 
keeping.” 

The three older Barney children, infected by the 
general cheerfulness of their elders, began to caper 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 183 


about Mike and his infantile partner, but Seton was 
silent. After a moment, the well-borer’s wife said, 
slowly and sadly: “I suppose we’ll soon be moving 
again ; we always have to go away from a place just 
as I’m beginning to like the people real well.” 

Gibbons has demanded the privilege of renting the 
shack at Fleitmanhurst from month to month, as he 
is boring a well for a settler about a mile north of 
there, and other neighbors are considering having 
similar work done. It may be that he and his wife 
will be in this region throughout this winter. That 
possibility would not worry me were Seton talking 
of departing, but he says nothing of leaving us. 
Nor has any summons come from his mother, al- 
though it is a month since I sent her a letter of 
warning, which was, perhaps, so carefully phrased 
that she failed to read between its lines. This un- 
profitable effusion stated that this region is more 
rough than she perhaps realizes and that her son 
is forming undesirable friendships. To have made 
the statement stronger by saying that Seton is in- 
fatuated with a married woman would have given 
Mrs. Postley an erroneous impression of Evelyn 
Gibbons, who is as undesigning as a child, as well as 
of Seton’s behavior, which has never been other than 
straightforward. 

“Seton has even ceased to talk about his beloved 


184 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


‘snake room,’ ” 1 complained to Richard. “Probably 
he wouldn’t take a rattler’s pelt as a gift now, much 
less pay real money for one.” 

“Seton would pay a fair price for a rattler’s pelt, 
even if he threw it away the next moment, because 
he’s the sort to keep any agreement that he might 
make,” replied Richard. “He’s a boy — er — a man — 
of honor. You might have spared yourself the 
trouble of writing that diplomatic letter to his 
mother because she knows that ‘apron strings’ have 
gone out of fashion. You may be sure that she per- 
fectly understands her son’s disposition.” 

“Perhaps,” shaking my head doubtfully, being 
possessed of the belief that no woman understands 
any man — even her own son. Then added hopefully : 
“If Seton has ever before fancied himself in love, 
he’ll be the more likely to quickly recover from 
this attack.” 

“Tumbling in and out of love isn’t a characteristic 
of the Postley family. Because Seton will be likely 
to go about the world a good bit, he may have several 
love affairs before he marries but had he met Mrs. 
Gibbons before her marriage, he’d never look at 
another woman. What I at first supposed was mere 
admiration for a pretty face proves to be a very 
deeply rooted affection.” 

This opinion of Richard’s was depressing and, 
while wondering what could be done about Seton, 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 185 

another week passed. A second week was half gone 
on the day that, starting tardily for Letter Box 
Grove, we reached there just as the mail stage was 
departing and the settlers dispersing. Among 
Seton’s letters was one addressed in an unfamiliar 
chirography. This he read twice over, then said 
slowly : “It’s from the Mater’s trained nurse. She 
writes wholly on her own responsibility to warn me 
that operations for appendicitis sometimes prove — 
fatal.” 

“Most trained nurses are alarmists,” I said 
quickly and mendaciously. “But, naturally, you will 
want to go to your mother. Percy Nelson shall 
drive you to Baldwin right away. There’s plenty 
of time to catch the eastward bound night train.” 

“But he’ll have to take the risk of securing a 
Pullman reservation and may have to sit up for sev- 
eral nights,” objected Richard. “Twenty-four 
hours’ delay won’t make a material difference, or 
the nurse would have telegraphed. Percy shall drive 
to Baldwin this afternoon and secure a section for 
to-morrow evening.” 

“That’s so,” agreed Seton, so eagerly that I stared 
at him in amazement. 

Evelyn Gibbons was not at Letter Box Grove 
that noon, but we had not expected to find her there, 
as the well-borer had told Mr. Barney he was going 
up-country to confer with an orchardist about a 


186 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


contract and expected to take his young wife along. 
While Seldie and Seton walked a few yards in ad- 
vance, Richard took the opportunity to remark : 
“That boy won’t leave here without saying good-bye 
to Evelyn Gibbons, and, as she will not get back to 
Fleitmanhurst until late to-night, you need only keep 
an eye upon him between to-morrow’s dawn and 
train time. This is your afternoon off duty.” 
Richard smiled, but I sighed. The duties of a chap- 
erone are at all times irksome, but never more so 
than when her charges are the young multi-million- 
aire son of a widowed gentlewoman and the unsophis- 
ticated wife of a middle-aged mechanic. 

Nevertheless the afternoon might have progressed 
smoothly had it not been for Josie Skookem, who, 
shortly after luncheon, ambled into the yard on her 
favorite gray cayuse. She led a second pony laden 
with large baskets filled with wild berries. Although 
Collie continuously wagged his plumy tail, his noisy 
greeting greatly alarmed her. Finally, when in the 
exuberance of his youthful spirits, the dog leaped 
upon her back, caught the end of her brilliantly 
colored kerchief, and dragged it from her head, she 
became really nervous. A sharp word from Richard, 
however, promptly reduced Collie to order, and 
Josie, having tethered her ponies to a tree, came 
inside the shack. As she entered the library, Seton, 
who had been lounging upon a couch, sprang to his 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 187 

feet and bowed ceremoniously. Not having acquired 
the frontierman’s offhand manner, he accords pre- 
cisely the same courtesy to the red woman as he does 
to her white sister. 

Josie, frankly amazed and tremendously flattered 
by Seton’s manner, giggled and seated herself in a 
rocking chair which creaked beneath her weight. 
Presently a shaft of sunlight, striking athwart the 
boy’s short-cropped blond head, turned its every hair 
to brightest gold. As though fascinated with this 
glorious halo, the squaw seated herself beside him 
on the couch and ran her slim brown fingers over 
his head. It is quite possible that she had never 
before seen a person so blond. Her naively expressed 
admiration for Seton was certainly refreshing. 

After a few moments she indicated a desire to 
explore our shack and slowly examined its four 
rooms, its bath and its pantry. The simply framed 
pictures and the rows of books seemed greatly to 
interest her, the china and silver clearly were 
revelations in table equipment, and the rugs and 
draperies drew forth admiring exclamations in 
Chinook. Most of all was she taken with our New 
Zealand steamer rugs, which she plainly regarded 
as squaw blankets. So long did she hover over these 
wrappings and so frankly did she hint that she 
would gladly accept one of them, that I finally gave 
her to understand that the contents of this shack 


188 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


belong to Richard, of whom she stands greatly in 
awe. Yet it was he who purchased a quantity of 
her late berries, and, despite her admiration for 
Seton and her expressions of friendship for me, she 
contrived to drive a very shrewd bargain. 

“Seventy-five cents a gallon is an absurd price, 
Josie,” remonstrated Richard. “Nobody around 
here will pay you so much.” 

Josie exhibited three “two-bit” pieces. “Well- 
man’s woman just now give me these.” 

Seton picked up his cap and snake stick. “I’m 
off for a short stroll,” he announced with a sem- 
blance of carelessness. Then he extended a hand to 
J osie. “Good-bye.” 

“He nice boy,” remarked Josie, gazing intently 
after Seton as, followed by Collie, he hurried across 
the clearing bordering the orchard. Then she turned 
her dark eyes skyward : “I go now. Heap big storm 
he come,” adding when she had mounted her cayuse, 
“I see nice boy ’gain some time, maybe?” 

“You’re not likely to,” replied Richard dryly. 
“He don’t belong here.” 

“No white mans belong Klickitat country,” 
quickly retorted the squaw, “but they come — and 
stay.” 

“Josie’s a born Socialist,” observed Richard as 
we watched the squaw’s brilliantly blanketed figure 
glinting amongst the trees of the wagon track, 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 189 

“although she probabty has never heard a lecture 
on Socialism and don’t even know that there is such 
a cult.” 

“Of course Seton has gone to Fleitmanhurst,” I 
said, for the nonce losing interest in Josie Skookem. 

“Not a doubt of it,” was the reply. 

“I’m going there, too.” 

“Then you will make a fool of yourself,” said 
Richard frankly. 

“Seton said that he was going for a short stroll 
and nothing whatever about Fleitmanhurst.” I was 
putting on my tweed topcoat and cap. 

“Josie’s storm will catch you,” warned Richard 
as I passed through the door of the shack. 

Mt. Hood was hidden behind a mass of black 
clouds which had gathered suddenly. In the east a 
dense, dark curtain hid the further landscape, blot- 
ting out its hills and blurring its forests. The five- 
times-married woman’s woods were as quiet as a 
house above which Death hovers as I took the short 
cut through them. Not a bird chirped, not a 
pheasant fluttered, not a squirrel scampered, not a 
lizard rustled the dry leaves on the ground. Every 
flower hung its head ; every tree drooped its branches. 
The forest, rarely silent, lay beneath that spell 
which seems to hold Nature before the breaking forth 
of a great storm that is to rage through the woods, 
terrorizing the timid wild creatures, prostrating 


190 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

half-dead trees, forcing stately oaks and pines to 
bow humbly before its blasts. Long before I had 
struck the trail leading to Fleitmanhurst, the wind 
began to rise and great drops of rain fell upon my 
face. A chill, that was almost icy, came into the 
air, and in the depths of that primeval forest night 
seemed to be coming on apace. I listened anxiously 
for the sound of Collie’s voice and peered into the 
gloom in the hope of catching a glimpse of his shaggy 
red-gold coat. If the boy and the dog had taken 
that trail they must have traveled fast. Perhaps 
they had gone in some other direction? Why could 
I not accept Seton’s “going for a short stroll” lit- 
erally? Why was I possessed with the idea that by 
hurrying to the Fleitmanhurst shack I might avert 
a tragedy? The well-borer was away from his home 
and no one else who was interested in his young 
wife was of a violent disposition. Reason suggested 
turning back. Intuition whispered, “Go on.” The 
trail seemed endless. Each instant the wind rose 
higher, the big rain drops fell faster, the woods grew 
darker. 

The Fleitmanhurst home plot lies in a hollow be- 
tween three high hills, and to reach it the pedestrian 
travels a trail whose final lap is almost a perpen- 
dicular descent. Directly opposite, the county road, 
rough and narrow, runs three times across the face 
of the second steep hill and proceeds similarly across 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 191 


the third elevation so that a person traveling this 
highway from either direction has a view of the 
shack for fully ten minutes before reaching its door- 
yard. As I paused for breath at the top of the 
trail’s steep descent, a horseman came into view on 
an opposite hill. The rain was beating full upon 
his face, which I could not see distinctly, but be- 
cause he was proceeding slowly I felt sure that he 
was the well-borer returning from his long ride up- 
country. Nan, whom he had hired from Tom Nelson, 
was doubtless tired beyond the effort of breaking 
into one of her hysterical gallops, and her rider was 
now so close to a fire and dry clothing that a fur- 
ther drenching did not matter to him. From the 
top of the trail I could see the wide open rear door 
of the shack, and the sight of Collie, squatted just 
within its threshold, proved that I must be inside of 
the little home before the arrival of its master. 
Otherwise the well-borer might not believe that I 
had gone there with Seton. Would I be in time? 
I could hear the beat of Nan’s hoofs as a fairly 
smooth bit of road inspired her to strike into her 
characteristic rapid gait, but the next twist of the 
way hid horse and rider from view just as I left 
the trail and dashed across the open to the shack. 
I gained it as a shout announced that the well- 
borer was clamoring for admittance at the front 
door. Collie sprang upon me as I entered the lean-to 


192 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


and for the first time was roughly repelled. The 
look of hurt surprise in his brown eyes still is with 
me. 

“Turn that inside out,” I whispered, while hand- 
ing my wet top-coat to Seton, “and wrap the cap 
inside of it.” Without speaking to Evelyn Gibbons, 
standing wide-eyed and bewildered at the opposite 
side of the kitchen, I stepped into the front room 
and, pushing back the bolt of its door, admitted the 
master of the house. And lied: “We took refuge 
here from the storm. Your wife is kindly making 
us a cup of tea.” 

Mr. Gibbons grunted. Throughout that tea 
party he was unusually sullen, and Seton said 
scarcely a word. Its hostess and I kept up a dis- 
jointed conversation concerning Collie. Dogs are 
quite as safe a topic as is the weather and a decidedly 
more interesting one. Suddenly Collie gave vent to a 
short, glad bark and bounded through the open door 
of the lean-to. 

Richard, garbed and laden with oilskins, was 
coming down the trail. “I thought you two weather- 
wiseless people would take refuge here from the 
storm,” he said in his most genial accents. 

“That thar squaw, Josie, told ’em it was a-goin’ 
ter rain,” growled Mr. Gibbons. “I met her a piece 
back.” 

“Did Josie Skookem tell the well-borer that Seton 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 193 


was with me or did she mention Evelyn and Seton?” 
That thought tormented me during our home- 
ward walk. Richard, contrary to custom, kept at 
the rear of the procession as the three of us took 
our way over the forest trails. I, following Seton, 
and, filled with an indefinable apprehension of evil 
to be guarded against, continually glanced back- 
ward. 


CHAPTER XV 


By nine o’clock that night the storm had spent 
its fury upon the earth and the wind had subsided. 
One by one the stars came out. Seton, having made 
all preparations for his journey of the morrow, went 
to bed. Soon afterward his example was followed 
by Richard, who first made sure of having plenty 
of fresh air by hooking back both entrance doors, 
as is his practice during other than severely cold 
weather. He laughs at the idea of barring the doors 
of an occupied house such as this one since any 
man of average strength could readily break into 
it. Nevertheless I invariably bolt the door of my 
own room. The noise necessarily made by any 
marauder who might try to force it would at least 
prove a warning in case Collie were absent on one 
of his prowling expeditions. Richard’s second argu- 
ment against barring the doors has heretofore been : 
“Never yet has anyone come here after dark, and 
it’s most unlikely that anyone ever will come.” The 
unexpected happened that night. While my candles 
still were burning, a man’s voice, coming from the 
direction of the bar-gate, called “Charley ! Charley !” 
194 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 195 

From the chamber beyond the living-room came the 
sound of two men breathing deeply and regularly, 
but my voice instantly awakened them. As they sat 
up in their beds, “Charley ! Charley !” was re- 
peated, this time directly outside the window of their 
room. Richard stepped to the front door and ad- 
dressed the man whose tall figure could be dimly 
discerned close to the veranda: “Are you looking 
for someone?” 

“I guess I lost my way, mister,” replied the 
stranger, in low-pitched, musical tones. 

“Who are you?” 

“Skookem. There used to be a trail running 
through here.” 

“There still is a trail, but you can’t use it now. 
This place is fenced. If you’re going toward the 
Columbia, take that trail behind the storehouse,” 
indicating the woods beyond the line fence. “It 
crosses de Petrio Canyon and leads straight to the 
river.” 

“Thank you, mister.” The Indian" half turned 
about. “Good-night.” 

“There’s a lady,” murmured a softly pitched 
feminine voice. A squaw mounted on a pony moved 
out of the shadows and closer to the door. 

“What is your name?” This time Richard ad- 
dressed the blanketed shape. 

“Sally.” 


196 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


“Then, if you’re the wife of Indian Jim, go 
straight back to Josie’s shack. You’ll find the two 
Jims there — waiting for you.” 

“How you know that?” demanded Skookem. 

“Mrs. Greene — you know the wise white woman — 
heard from them this morning.” 

“I go !” exclaimed the squaw. Turning her 
cayuse she sped toward the wagon track and was 
soon swallowed by the blackness of the forest beyond 
the fencing. 

“Sally stuck on Big Jim,” laughed Skookem as he 
mounted his cayuse. “She all right now. In an 
hour she be with her boy at Josie’s place. I no 
bother with her any more. Good-night.” 

“Skookem was so curious to know if that old 
trail were still open that he made an excuse to come 
here,” laughed Richard. “There’s no telling how he 
happened to pick up Sally, but they probably saw 
your light from the road across the south canyon 
and it guided them straight here. How silly of him 
to pretend he had missed the trail. In daylight or 
darkness an Indian doesn’t lose his way.” 

Early the next morning the Oelsens, whose “eighty” 
adjoins our south line, came to tell us of Skookem’s 
visit to their shack just before the storm of the 
previous afternoon. On that occasion the chief was 
alone and had assumed a dictatorial tone. He 
threatened to break down the boundary fence be- 


APPLE WOMAN OP THE KLICKITAT 197 

tween the two properties if a gate were not made 
in it so that the trail crossing the lands might be 
used by his tribesmen. Finally he said: “You didn’t 
buy this land from me.” 

“Sure, I didn’t. I bought it from the government. 
And if you get fresh about it I’ll fill you full of 
lead,” replied Oelsen, whose expression and tones 
usually are as mild as a lamb’s. 

Mrs. Oelsen volunteered the information that 
Skookem is at present a grass widower, a condition 
which frequently overtakes him. Only a short time 
ago he had beaten his squaw because her boy papoose 
had died. This manner of expressing paternal be- 
reavement so angered the mother of the dead baby 
that she promptly deserted the father. Whereupon 
the deserted Indian asked the county authorities to 
force her to return to his ranch, a domestic matter 
in which the officials declined to interfere. They 
also — untactfully — reminded him that the young 
squaw was but one of a number of spouses who had 
been unable to endure his society for long. 

Skookem may have a rather high-minded mode of 
defining a wife’s domestic status, but he certainly 
has an agreeable voice, polite manners, and a dis- 
tinguished personality. Because he is an hereditary 
chieftain, the lady at the head of his menage enjo}'s 
a certain social prestige. According to the well- 
informed Mrs. Oelsen, the various ex-spouses of the 


198 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


chieftain, believing that in union there is strength, 
are on the most cordial terms one with another, if 
it is indeed true that these ladies have reunions, to 
attend one of them would certainly be an interesting 
experience since these ex-wives doubtless freely ex- 
press opinions of their common lord’s eccentricities. 
Nevertheless these detached wives are not wholly 
emancipated. At busy seasons Skookem orders 
all of them back to his ranch to help with the work 
in progress there. This proves how vastly superior 
is his business acumen to that of the alimony-paying 
white chiefs of the marriage industry. 

As soon as the Oelsens had departed, Seton took 
formal leave of Collie and Lila, who followed him 
to the bar-gate as though realizing that he was leav- 
ing for an indefinite time. While traveling the trail 
overlooking Fleitmanhurst’s shack, we saw the well- 
borer lounging at its doorway. He kept his face 
averted from us, although he must have heard our 
voices and guessed our identity. When I, like Lot’s 
wife, glanced backward from the apex of the op- 
posite hill, Gibbons had turned his face. His sullen 
black eyes were fixed upon Seton. 

Near the letter boxes we encountered Mr. Car- 
penter returning from an early morning errand at 
Baldwin. He handed me a letter which had reached 
the village the previous evening, and, thinking that 
it might be of importance, was intending to leave it 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 199 

at Mira-Monte. As the letter was an urgent request 
from a magazine editor for additional photographs 
of the fruit-growing region, I at once decided to 
spend that night at Baldwin. By so doing I could 
see Seton board the eastbound train that evening 
and be with him every moment up to the time of his 
departure. The thought of knowing positively that 
he had started in safety would be a comforting one. 

Seton was in no haste to reach Baldwin before 
train time. We loitered along the road, stopping in 
the late afternoon to eat luncheon at the spring 
near the bridge and neglecting the short cut across 
Josie’s homestead property. But we paused long 
enough near it for Seton to take various kodak 
views of the abiding place of the first Mrs. Skookem. 

If to Josie had been given the privilege of select- 
ing her homestead she displayed small wisdom. 
What portion of it is not a wind-swept bluff over- 
looking Mullen Hill Road is on a sort of peninsula 
between de Petrio Can}mn and the Big Klickitat, 
which there curves abruptly and is spanned by a 
wooden bridge at the point where the railway tracks 
are left behind and Mullen Hill begins. The shack 
is a collection of irregularly-sized sheds, presumably 
opening one into another, and doubtless added from 
time to time as the necessities of the family de- 
manded. The central and larger section of the house 
supports its sole chimney, and is also distinguished 


200 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


by an entrance door from which a trail leads 
straight to the fences separating the clearing from 
the county road. Near the south side of the shack 
is a covered well fed by an underground spring, and 
in the adjacent paddock browse many ponies. The 
possession of a large number of ponies is not an 
indication of enormous wealth, for it is a poor Indian 
who has not from fifteen to twenty of these animals. 
Nobody knows why Josie Skookem keeps so many 
cayuses. Certainly she does not have them for agri- 
cultural purposes as only a small portion of her 
homestead has been cleared ; not a foot of it has been 
plowed. Also living on this ranch is a band of 
savage dogs, which snarl at every passing pedes- 
trian and vehicle, but never jump the fences of their 
owner’s domain. With the fierce eyes and wolfish 
face of the coyote, these mongrels have short hair 
of the dull black-brown shade of the singed sausage 
and an unsymmetrical shape. Despite this lack of 
pulchritude, Josie seems to prize them. They return 
her esteem by faithfully guarding her property. To 
get anywhere near to the shack or even to use a 
trail crossing the clearing, means to encounter a 
band of these snarling pets, whose barking always 
brings a squaw upon the scene. If of friendly dis- 
position, the squaw will promptly quiet the dogs ; 
if unfriendly, she will brandish a stick at the in- 
truder. Such a demonstration is sufficient to cause 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 201 


the average white woman to hurriedly retire. A 
man, of course, always holds to his course. To be 
driven off by an Indian woman would be to earn for 
him that term which every self-respecting settler 
regards as one of reproach — “squaw man.” 

These wolf-dogs vanish whenever Josie’s home- 
stead is temporarily deserted, but what then be- 
comes of them is one of the mysteries which surround 
the habits of these aboriginals. The dogs simply 
disappear. We have frequently seen Josie when 
about to start upon or when returning from a jour- 
ney, and although the procession invariably includes 
an ancient “hack” and innumerable pack ponies — 
heavily laden with clattering pots, pans and kettles — 
never is she attended by a canine pet. 

Not until we had finished our luncheon at the 
spring did Seton refer even distantly to the event 
of the previous day. “We should have stopped at 
Fleitmanhurst for your tweed coat; you may need 
it to-morrow while on the river.” 

“The coat would still have been damp,” I replied 
and began to talk animatedly of things and people 
in the east, inspired by dread of being entrusted with 
some message, which might not be a wise one, to 
deliver to the well-borer’s young wife. 

More rain fell that evening while we were having 
supper at Baldwin with the Tanners in their new 
home. It consists of two twelve by fourteen foot 


202 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

wall tents, connecting at one end by a door and 
lighted by several landscape windows. It is set up 
close to the Columbia and in the centre of a garden 
enclosed with a picket fence, from whose gate a 
cinder path leads to a door opening into a living- 
room with a matting-covered floor, gunny sacking- 
lined walls, walnut furnishings and dotted Swiss 
window draperies. Behind this room is a parlor- 
bedroom done in red denim, willow furnished and 
heated by an air-tight stove, beside which lives a 
satin-coated Maltese. 

Seated in that tent home, amidst warmth and 
comfort and the innumerable evidences of refinement, 
which the wife of the leading pioneer has collected 
about herself, it was difficult to realize that we were 
on the edge of civilization. On one side the Columbia, 
flowing past bleak bluffs ; on the other a dense for- 
est, the home of bear, coyote, and bobcat. But we 
knew that outside those canvas walls a fierce wind 
was battling with a heavy rain. The noise of these 
warring elements almost deadened the sound of a 
knock at the door of the tent. 

“That’s an Injun,” remarked the white-haired old 
frontiersman, briskly rising from his chair near the 
table, at which we were playing cribbage, and open- 
ing the door. Big Jimmy stood without. Nodding 
gravely in response to our salutations: “Come in, 
Jimmy,” “Good-evening, Jimmy,” “How are you, 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 203 


Jimmy?” the aborigine stepped into the room and 
seated himself on a proffered chair. He did not 
remove the broad-brimmed gray felt hat, — firmly se- 
cured by a red ribbon bow knotted under his brown 
chin, — from beneath which streamed long black 
locks loosened by the wind from the leather thong 
which customarily held them against the nape of 
his neck. A scarlet and yellow striped calico neck- 
kerchief contrasted vividly with his cheap, dark, 
worsted suit, and elaborately beaded moccasins ex- 
tending midway to his knees. Indian Jimmy asked 
our host, who speaks Chinook fluently, how he should 
proceed to collect damages for a portion of fencing 
fired by a locomotive on the Goldendale railway 
track which passes Josie’s ranch. After the neces- 
sary advice had been furnished, a silence ensued. 
Apparently the visitor had nothing further to say, 
yet he sat gazing straight at Seton. 

“Is that all, Jimmy?” asked the old pioneer after 
a lapse of several moments. Time was flying and 
he was anxious to finish the game of cribbage before 
the eastbound train would arrive. 

The Indian did not reply. 

Another silence. The visitor again fixed his gaze 
upon Seton and perhaps would have addressed him 
directly had he been able to express himself fluently 
in our tongue. When the clock had ticked off an- 
other five minutes the aborigine arose, and, without 


204 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


uttering another word, crossed the tent, opened its 
front door and plunged into the outer blackness. 

“That Injun’s got somethin’ on his chest besides a 
burned strip o’ fencin’,” mused the old frontiersman. 
A shrill whistle sounded from a long distance. 
“That’s the train from Goldendale.” He glanced 
at the clock and addressed Seton : “Better be gettin’ 
a move on to you, young feller ; the eastbound 
train’s due in five minutes, ’cause it connects with 
the one from up-country.” He lighted the lantern 
which was to illumine our way to the railway sta- 
tion: “You can leave this here, goin’ to the boat 
to-morrow morning,” he said as he handed the light 
to me. Calling out a cheery “good-night” and 
“good-bye” he closed the door of the tent. 

“Someone is riding close behind us,” muttered 
Seton presently. “Hello, there!” he shouted. 

There was no response but, by the soft padding of 
little unshod hoofs, we knew that an Indian, himself 
hidden by the darkness without the circle of our 
lantern’s rays, was being guided by them. 

The train lingered scarcely long enough at Bald- 
win for Seton to swing upon the rear platform of a 
Pullman and almost into the arms of its white-coated 
colored porter, who hurried him into the car as the 
engine bell clanged in response to the forward 
signal. 

As the train moved slowly away, I turned and 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 205 


looked straight into the sullen black eyes of Mr. 
Jack Gibbons. Behind him, so close that he could 
instantly have laid a sinewy brown hand upon his 
throat, crouched Big Jimmy, a murderous-looking 
sheath knife gripped between his teeth. A pace be- 
hind Jimmy, Josie Skookem held the bridles of two 
cayuses. Seton had been well guarded that stormy 
autumn night. 

The well-borer gallantly escorted me to the 
Hotel Baldwin. On the way there he made one 
remark: “This here country ain’t no place for no 
young dude.” Fortunately I remembered Richard’s 
oft-repeated remark: “If women would keep their 
mouths closed when they don’t know precisely what 
to say they would keep out of trouble a great many 
times.” Never before had I been so eager to avoid 
trouble. 

The confusion caused by a dozen sheepherders 
loading their pack horses awakened me before dawn 
the morning after Seton’s departure, but its sunrise 
was sufficient compensation for the loss of a few 
hours’ sleep. While standing on the hotel veranda, 
a fiery glare in the east so startled me that I was 
on the point of shouting “Fire!” when I realized 
that the supposed conflagration was the sun ap- 
pearing from behind the high bluffs on the Oregon 
side of the Columbia. Forgetting the dirt and dis- 
order of the little frontier settlement, the swine and 


206 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


fowl loafing about its narrow streets, the sordid 
existence of its citizens — all save the miracle of the 
dawn — I reveled in the glory of it until the door 
behind me was flung open and the peace of the hour 
dispeled by the rough boots and the rougher voices 
of the “regular boarders” at the hostelry. The spell 
cast upon me by the breaking of the day was shat- 
tered for, by the time the boarders had gone away, 
the sun had climbed high enough to disclose the 
rudely constructed shacks and discolored, grimy 
tents lining the muddy, unkempt thoroughfare. 
Suddenly conscious of the wintry chill in the air, I 
went indoors. 

The smoky atmosphere of the hotel office pro- 
claimed that in its sheet iron stove a newly lighted 
fire was struggling for existence. This heater was 
expected to supply warmth to that general lounging 
place as well as to the adjoining dining-room, where 
I seated myself at table opposite to a smooth-faced 
young man wearing a cheap, neat suit, a flannel shirt 
and mountain boots, yet looking every inch a tender- 
foot. While I was mentally trying to decide what 
might be his occupation, a waitress, placing a laden 
tray at his elbow, apologized: “Sorry to keep you 
waiting so long, mister, but our cook left last 
night.” 

“So soon as I’ve finished breakfast I’ll apply for 
the job,” promptly replied the guest. 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 207 

“Good!” exclaimed the girl. “That there’s the 
kitchen,” pointing to a swinging door. 

When the waitress had gone, I remarked : “You’re 
not a professional cook.” 

“No, but I guess I’ll do well enough for this sort 
of an hotel.” 

“Broke?” 

“Nearly,” cheerfully. “In a new country a man 
must take whatever work he can get.” 

“That’s right, young feller,” said the well-borer, 
who had lounged into the dining-room in time to 
overhear our conversation. “But this here’s a rough 
country an’ we don’t want no men in it what thinks 
they’re better’n us.” Without awaiting a reply he 
passed on. 

Not until Mr. Gibbons had seated himself at a 
distant table did the tenderfoot mutter: “A chap 
with a grouch now and an ugly customer at any 
time. He’d be as bad an enemy as an Indian — 
judging by what I’ve heard about them.” 

“Scarcely so firm a friend as an Indian,” I replied, 
remembering how Seton had been guarded by Josie 
and Jimmy during the previous evening. 

Two days later Richard received a letter from 
Seton, written on the train during the night follow- 
ing his departure from Baldwin. He said: “I’m 
going home because a son’s place is beside his ill 
mother, but I’ve left my heart in the shack at Fleit- 


208 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


manhurst. Evelyn doesn’t know that and I don’t 
know that she cares for me — because she’s good and 
innocent and pure-minded. While Gibbons remains 
in Klickitat I shall never return there.” 

“You had all that worry for nothing,” remarked 
Richard, as he destroyed the letter — for one never 
knows. 

“Nobody could have guessed that Seton’s mother 
would develop an appendix or that her trained nurse 
would be inspired to write so feelingly. I doubt if 
any other circumstance could have lured Seton 
away from here.” 

“ ‘All’s well that ends well,’ ” quoted Richard. 

“Has this affair ended? I wonder.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


Mid-winter and as yet no snow. I look every day 
at the unlovely blackened stumps left by the autumn 
burnings, and they fill my soul with joy. As soon as 
these stumps have been blown out and the soil 
grubbed, that new strip will be ready for the plow- 
man; after he is through with his work, the little 
peach trees heeled down months ago, will be planted. 
The sum which is to pay for this additional work 
came not miraculously, but from the sale of a dia- 
mond ring heirloom. Had I a peck of such baubles, 
they would be sold cheerfully to further the im- 
provements upon this Klickitat Eden. Land here- 
about steadily rises in value because every foot of 
property within a ten mile radius of Baldwin has 
been taken up. As soon as a homesteader has lived 
the allotted time, and made the specified improve- 
ments upon his holding, he can usually sell his claim 
for fifty to seventy dollars per acre to persons finan- 
cially able to immediately begin development work. 
Yet not all of them — even after five 3^ears of toil and 
contending with debt — are eager to get away. “I 
don’t want the childer to have to go away from home 
209 


210 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


to work when they’ve growed up. An’ if the apple 
trees is bearing by that time — an’ please God, they 
will be — they won’t have to go,” Mr. Barney said to 
me not long ago while Richard was playing host to 
Mr. Blacke-McCormick, who had come here ostensi- 
bly to see the pump-house recently erected over the 
well, but actually to invite my eligible bachelor 
brother to visit the colonial replica in logs. Mr. 
Blacke-McCormick emphasized his invitation with, 
“and, Mr. Van Cortlandt, my wife said to tell you 
that you’ll be treated as a gentleman.” Richard is 
now wondering whether Mrs. Blacke-McCormick be- 
lieves that such treatment will be a novel experience 
for him. 

Often toward sunset, a patch of vivid green, yel- 
low, blue or red glimpsing among the trees along 
the wagon track, announces the coming of an Indian. 
Nearly always the visitor proves to be Josie, at times 
occompanied by little Jim, and she usually brings a 
gift in the shape of a fish, a bird or a fancy bas- 
ket. Never as yet have I given her a present of value 
and because most squaws beg systematically and per- 
sistently, Josie’s professed affection must be gen- 
uine. She does not ask for presents although loud in 
her expressions of admiration and lingering in her 
survey of the various articles which she specially 
fancies. Her most recent offering was a pair of ela- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 211 


borately-beaded mocassins and she was frankly scan- 
dalized because my feet refused to go into them. 
Indeed, those extremities seem of abnormal propor- 
tions as compared with Josie’s feet which are short, 
arched of instep, and very slender despite her one 
hundred and fifty pounds of flesh and bone. 

“You all same sister,” said Josie during one of 
these visits, then lapsed into silence as she often does. 
Occasionally I glanced from my task of dressing dolls 
for the Barney’s little daughters, to admire my 
guest’s idle hands which looked like models in bronze 
as they lay on her blue calico lap. Her slim, taper- 
ing fingers have perfectly shaped, well-cared for 
nails and her almost white palms are not rough as, 
indeed, they should not be since she does work no 
harder than bead-embroidery and basket-weaving. 
Her housekeeping is accomplished by an elderly sis- 
ter, who looks a hundred years old and probably is 
less than fifty. That day, Josie, according to habit, 
was wandering about the living-room and the library, 
peering at the books — whose titles she cannot read — 
and fingering articles on the shelves. Suddenly she 
uttered a low cry of delight. She had come upon 
Seton’s photograph. “He no come back — no more,” 
she said. It was a statement, not a question. 

“Some day — perhaps.” 

“Not now!” exclaimed the squaw earnestly. 


212 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


“Some day — twelve moons, may be. Josie and Big 
Jimmy no want him to come back now!” 

“Why?” 

“Well-man, he no good!” she burst forth, her 
dark eyes flashing with hatred. “He curse my liP 
girl an’ hit her ’cause she get in he way Baldwin 
store. Boy,” touching Seton’s photograph, “he 
speak good to her — give her this.” She fished from 
some mysterious pocket under her dress the mate to 
my silver belt ; one of the pair that Mrs. Blacke-Mc- 
Cormick had seen Seton buy and had told the gossips 
that he had given to Evelyn Gibbons. “He all same 
my lil’ girl’s brother now.” 

“Was that the reason you and Big Jimmy followed 
him to the cars when he left here?” I asked. 

“We watch well-man all that day,” admitted Josie, 
“ ’cause well-man follow boy — with knife. But,” tri- 
umphantly, “Jimmy have big knife, too.” Then she 
added quickly : “You no tell white mens Jimmy have 
knife.” 

I promised. Sure that I would keep my word, 
Josie said that she must go, and, with a final glance 
at Seton’s pictured face, picked up her baskets. She 
scarcely spoke as we walked to the bar-gate. There 
she mounted her cayuse and moved away down the 
trail. At its first bend she turned on her blanket sad- 
dle and waved a small brown hand. The sun was be- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 213 


ginning to drop below the western hills, and its glow 
reddened the horizon like a conflagration, as the 
squaw’s brightly garbed figure cut sharply into the 
darkness of the forest. 

Existence here is so peaceful, and, since Seton’s 
safe* departure, so care-free that I frequently find 
myself wishing that certain women who send me long 
accounts of rebuffs, disappointments and office “knif- 
ings” would come here for an indefinite rest from 
journalistic worries. Yet even the most dissatisfied 
of these metropolitan strugglers for a livelihood 
would soon become bored with such tame diversions 
as sunsets, brush fires and afternoon tea with squaws. 
As Richard rarely calls upon a neighbor, we have few 
visitors. Aside from Josie, Little Jim and the Tan- 
ners, the persons who occasionally happen in are 
either white men wearing blue overalls, tall boots and 
collarless shirts or Indians wearing ankle-high mocas- 
sins, calico sashes and absurdly^ shaped felt hats tied 
beneath the chin with gaudy ribbons. Daily I en- 
counter at Letter Box Grove an assemblage of set- 
tlers who backbite any absent neighbors as cheer- 
fully as do the countryside gossips or the club women 
of the effete east. Seldie says that most of these 
women fall upon my character and rend it to shreds 
as soon as my back is turned upon them. As the men 
labor under the erroneous impression that at this 


214 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

ranch is “a barrel of money,” from which it may be 
possible to borrow, they are cringingly polite to my 
face. If only I possessed that imaginary money keg, 
this entire quarter section of Mira-Monte would 
shortly be the wonder of the county. 


CHAPTER XVII 


Returning to Baldwin shortly before Christmas 
from a day’s shopping at The Dalles, I left the train 
overladen with bundles, boxes and a second-hand 
shot-gun. Everybody in sight was too busy to re- 
lieve me of any portion of my burden, so I struggled 
with it over the miry trail to the post-office in the 
hope of encountering someone about to start up 
Mullen hill in a vehicle of some sort. At the post- 
office I found Mr. Carpenter and his antiquated sor- 
rel on the point of leaving for home, but the wagon 
was so heavily laden that to take a passenger was 
out of the question. However, the settler agreed to 
transport my luggage, and, as the daylight would 
last for several hours longer, I decided to walk, con- 
fidently expecting to reach Mira-Monte some time 
in advance of the sorrel and his humane driver. Car- 
penter had scarcely gone when Satan appeared to 
me in the guise of Mr. John Tanner, who said that 
he was going the next morning to his up-country 
store, and would drive me as far as Letter Box Grove. 
The prospect of passing that night at Baldwin and 
driving next day to within a mile of home was more 
215 


216 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


alluring than that of trudging six miles over a rough 
road, and the possibility of becoming over-fatigued. 
Yet I would not have changed my plans had I not en- 
countered Gibbons and asked him to tell Richard not 
to expect me that night. 

The sun was scarcely an hour high the following 
morning when we drove away from Baldwin. The 
ground was hard with frost, the air sharp and the 
horses spirited. After some gentle discipline from 
their driver, however, and a mile of up-hill going, 
the brown cayuses settled into a steady trot that took 
us rapidly over the oldest road in Klickitat county. 
Few of the homesteads to be seen from this highway 
are of the shack type and some of them are almost 
pretentious. Nearly all of the houses are painted, 
many of them have verandas and bow windows, and 
several are of attractive architecture. But in every 
instance the land immediately surrounding the home- 
stead has been absolutely denuded of trees and shrub- 
bery. Usually all manner of domestic and farm ma- 
chinery litters that area and frequently a family 
washing dries within full view of the whoever travels 
the highway. 

But for the smoke issuing from the chimney of one 
rather large house whose blindless, undraped windows 
looked like lidless eyes, one might have assumed the 
place to be unoccupied. “Has the family recently 
moved in?” I enquired. 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 217 


“Moved in five years ago,” replied Mr. Tanner, 
“but they ain’t found time to fix up.” 

“Busy developing the land, perhaps,” I ventured, 
although seeing neither orchards nor fields. 

“Busy doin’ nothin’. Ten year from now if them 
folks lives on that ranch, it won’t look one mite dif- 
ferent than it does to-day. They’re jest plum’ shif’- 
less !” 

Shortly before noon we reached the up-country 
store, a replica of the one originally built 
by the Tanners at Baldwin, even to the huge sheet- 
iron stove, which heats the lower floor, where we 
found several masculine homesteaders lounging and 
exchanging neighborhood news. Edith Tanner was 
briskly scolding a clerk of almost twice her own age. 
This nervous, dapper-looking country beau who takes 
himself seriously and the orders of his young chief 
meekly, is certain to become more of a favorite with 
the women of that region than is the youngest Miss 
Tanner. She rarely utters a word that has not to 
do with business. Plenty of work was to be done that 
day as a heterogeneous stock of goods had just ar- 
rived and must be put in place. Mr. Tanner ex- 
perienced some difficulty in locating various commodi- 
ties, which several customers were asking for, and in- 
quiries as to their whereabouts plunged the dapper 
clerk into a state of apparent imbecility, though he 
had been working for a fortnight under the direction 


218 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


of the capable young manageress. That self-pos- 
sessed person, on the contrary, clearly remembered 
where every article was to be found, and gave in- 
structions about it without even turning her head or 
raising her eyes. 

By degrees the neighboring settlers completed their 
trading and took their departure. As the last one 
of them was making his rather long-drawn-out adieu, 
a freight driver, whom we had passed on the road 
that morning, and who had left Baldwin soon after 
midnight, tied his team to a hitching post before the 
store. It was then about two o’clock and Mr. Tan- 
ner, his youngest daughter, the teamster and I par- 
took of a luncheon sent over in large baskets from a 
neighboring house. The collation consisted of half 
a roasted chicken, baked custards, macaroni, canned 
tomatoes and buttered, raised biscuit. This food 
was laid out on a counter and we four sat on boxes 
drawn about it. 

The dapper clerk lunched at the boarding-house, 
and returned to the store in time to effusively greet 
three women who alighted from the backs of as many 
cayuses and came running in, flushed, laughing, and 
shaking from their garments the snow which had been 
falling heavily for the past few moments. These rep- 
resentatives of local society made themselves thor- 
oughly at home about the big stove and commented 
audibly and frankly about the size and the contents of 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 219 


the store, as though they were inspecting it for the 
first time. Without casting a glance toward these 
women, although they are of the class with which she 
will mingle while residing in that neighborhood, Edith 
Tanner serenely finished her luncheon, put away her 
ledgers, locked her safe, wrapped her head in a 
worsted “cloud” and her trim little figure in an ulster, 
gave the clerk some final directions, and stepped into 
the hack. She was returning to Baldwin with her 
father for the purpose of inspecting the samples of 
some drummers who were then at the village on the 
Columbia’s bank, but were unwilling to go further up- 
country on the mere chance of securing orders. 

On this occasion Mr. Tanner chose a road which 
took us past the site of the burned saw-mill, loafing 
place for the neighborhood cattle, and within sight 
of Mr. Montmorenci Jones’ collection of red build- 
ings. The snow made the going so difficult that dark- 
ness was nearly upon us before we reached Letter 
Box Grove where I bade my hosts good-bye and 
picked up the shortest trail for Mira-Monte. At the 
gate Collie expressed his welcome with an enthusiasm 
which sent my parcels flying to the snow-covered 
ground; then he waltzed and cavorted beside me to 
the back door of the shack which was unlocked, al- 
though Richard was nowhere about. Lila was curled 
on a cushion in the dining-room, and, because she 
merely opened her eyes and surveyed Collie and I 


220 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


patronizingly as we entered the room, I knew that 
during my brief absence the freedom of the shack 
had been bestowed upon her. 

Richard had been superintending some slashing 
which Mr. Barney and Mike are doing on the south 
slope of the home hill, and which he means to plant 
next spring with grapes — a purely personal experi- 
ment — but Collie’s vociferous greeting had notified 
him of some person’s arrival. It transpired that Gib- 
bons had not bothered to transmit my message about 
spending the previous night with the Tanners, and 
that Mr. Carpenter, upon reaching Mira-Monte had 
expressed wonder at my non-arrival. He and Rich- 
ard wisely arrived at the conclusion that I had de- 
cided not to attempt so long a walk at so late an 
hour. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A wolf has been howling close to our door. He 
was there solely because of the procrastinating na- 
ture of Mr. Sidney Talman. From Mrs. Greene and 
Percy Nelson, both of whom claim close friendship 
with the “gentleman homesteader,” we had heard 
much of the wealth and the “sporty” ways of the 
young man. Consequently, one morning we were sur- 
prised at being accosted by him while at the letter- 
boxes. He solicited patronage for an express and 
livery business in which he had just embarked, stat- 
ing that he was prepared to transport freight with 
“despatch and at reasonable rates.” Thanks be, 
that I had nothing to do with sending him his first 
and last order from Mira-Monte. Richard com- 
mitted that piece of folly, impelled thereto by a 
worthless theory that every member of the sterner 
sex has some good in him. He gravely informed me 
that as Talman apparently was ambitious to behave 
like a regular man he should be encouraged. Alas ! 
he insisted upon being the first encourager. With the 
admirable forehandedness that is one of his distin- 
guishing traits, Richard had ordered our winter sup- 
221 


222 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


ply of groceries and kerosene during September. 
These supplies had been shipped by the city wholesale 
house, of which we are promptly paying, and, there- 
fore, valued patrons, and had remained unclaimed at 
Baldwin because of the failure of the railway’s freight 
agent to notify us of their arrival. Having finally 
located them, we commissioned Talman to bring 
them to us, and, because of his slogan, “Despatch 
and reasonable rates,” expected him to make good 
within a week. 

Several weeks passed. November slipped into De- 
cember and Richard muttered maledictions. We were 
nearly out of sugar and could see the bottom of the 
coffee can. A courteously phrased note did not ex- 
tract any reply from the proprietor of the livery and 
express business, and another week passed. We 
ceased to drink coffee and Richard, pouring molas- 
ses upon his breakfast cereals, muttered further male- 
dictions. He also sent a note of a tenor likely to 
bring Mr. Talman to the ranch with a rifle instead of 
the groceries. That afternoon snow began to fall 
and within forty-eight hours there was four feet of 
it on the level. The third day dawned, bringing with 
it more snow. That noon we learned from the mail 
carrier that Mullen Hill road had become all but im- 
passable for heavily loaded wagons, and was hourly 
becoming worse. We wondered if we should be 
forced to close the shack, and, followed by Lila and 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 223 

Collie, walk to Baldwin and board there until we 
could find some means of personally conducting our 
supplies to their ultimate destination. Happily we 
were not for long forced to entertain this gloomy 
prospect. Late that afternoon the cheerful jingling 
of bells heralded visitors, and ten minutes later the 
red-tasseled heads of Francis Rawle’s four black 
horses appeared at the bar-gate. They drew the 
freighter’s heaviest wagon. Beside it trudged Rawle 
and a sixteen-year-old boy, both looking, in their fur 
chaps and caps, like overgrown coyotes walking on 
their hind legs. The previous morning Talman had 
despatched the boy with two horses and a light wagon 
to deliver two consignments of groceries and kero- 
sene in this region. Half way up Mullen Hill the 
vehicle had stuck in the snow, and, unable to free it 
unaided, the boy had unhooked the horses and taken 
them to the ranch of Mr. Rawle, who, fortunately, 
happened to be at home that day. Together they re- 
turned with extra horses to the stalled wagon, but 
by the time they had freed it the sun had set. Next 
morning the man and boy, with four horses, managed 
to deliver some long-delayed supplies at a ranch seven 
miles further up-country, and on their return trip 
stopped here. The wage of Mr. Rawle and his horses 
added to the extra time of the boy and his board for 
two days at the freighter’s home, amounted to double 
the price paid for the delivery of the supplies and 


224 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


may or may not be a lesson to the manager of the 
livery and express business who had had eight weeks 
of clear weather, after receiving our order, to attend 
to the matter. Mr. Rawle had news to tell of Big 
Jimmy, whom everyone hereabout knows and likes: 
“Jimmy’s the first Injun ever I seen deliberately goin’ 
round an’ lookin’ for work so as to support his wife 
the same as a decent white man would do. He jus’ 
kep’ on askin’ for a job at the freight yard until now 
they’ve taken him on along with the Hindoo gang, 
an’ lie’s keepin’ time as reg’lar as any of them tur- 
baned heathen. Him an’ Sally’s got a tent close to 

the river neighbors to the Tanners — an’ there 

they’re livin’ as decent as any white folks.” 

“No wonder Sally carried on like she was crazy 
that day she come back to Baldwin las’ fall an’ 
couldn’t find out where Jimmy had a-went,” observed 
the boy. “She knew she’d married a white Injun.” 

Mrs. Blacke-McCormick comes regularly to Letter 
Box Grove these winter days, and, like most of the 
neighboring women, deliberately cuts Evelyn Gib- 
bons. The social leader and her satellites form a 
group on one side of the main road, while an opposite 
faction, composed of Mrs. Greene and myself, remain 
on the other side of it. Mrs. Blacke-McCormick con- 
siders the well-borer “no gentleman,” and snubs him 
elaborately whenever he meets the mail carrier. That 
happens frequently of late, as the machine is not 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 225 


working steadily. Since the beginning of cold 
weather, Gibbons, who is thin-blooded and contin- 
ually complaining of chilliness, enthusiastically sec- 
onds my efforts to keep up a bonfire while awaiting 
the stage. It must be admitted that he displays in- 
finite patience when coaxing a match to ignite with 
damp twigs and pine cones. These kindling mate- 
rials are collected chiefly by myself. A fear of get- 
ting frost-bitten feet is an ever-present one and I 
cheerfully give my companion stoker all possible aid, 
the while endeavoring to entertain him with enliven- 
ing conversation. To everjLody’s surprise, he re- 
cently laughed heartily at the recital of some time- 
honored joke which chanced to be new to him. This 
hilarity drew from Mrs. Blacke-McCormick the ob- 
servation that two such illiterate persons as “that 
borer of wells” and “that squatter on ranches” would 
naturally be congenial. This sarcasm is a bit hard 
on Richard, who not only lives under the same roof 
with one of the illiterates, but acknowledges kinship 
to her. The gathering at the letter-boxes the day 
before Christmas was divided into two sections. Half 
of the people who awaited the carrier walked briskly 
up and down the road to keep from freezing, while 
the other half hovered over my bonfire, which burned 
so reluctantly that Mrs. Greene suggested having an 
orchestra at the grove that our circulation might be 
quickened by our dancing. 


226 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


“I’m sure you’re a lovely dancer, Mrs. Greene,” 
said Evelyn Gibbons. 

“No doubt you also dance like a fairy. If the 
Letter Box Grove set ever gives a party here, you’ll 
be its belle.” Richard spoke jocosely to Evelyn and 
was instantly sorry, for Gibbons, scowling darkly, 
turned aside, muttering curses. 

As we were walking homeward after the delivery of 
the mail, the well-borer’s wife volunteered the infor- 
mation that the day was the twentieth anniversary of 
her birth. I had thought her younger and, looking at 
at her dewy eyes, soft cheeks and tender throat, won- 
dered how she would appear after another twenty 
years and whether, by that time, she would have bit- 
terly regretted her youthful marriage. 

Since the night of Seton’s departure from Baldwin, 
Gibbons has never mentioned his name in my hearing. 
The other neighbors have often done so — always in 
connection with Evelyn’s — but they are careful not 
to do it when the well-borer is present. Not the least 
advantage of a reputation for having an ugly tem- 
per, is that of being saved the annoyance of frank 
speech from one’s associates. None of these home- 
steaders care to incur the wrath of pretty Evelyn’s 
black-browed, sullen husband. 

Christmas morning we waded to the letter-boxes 
through deep snow. The weather had moderated and 
the bright sunshine lured us out of doors partly for 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 227 


the sake of inhaling fresh, pure air, but principally 
because of a desire for human companionship on a 
day associated with merrymaking and feasting — 
when one is among kindred souls and in some place 
where it is possible to procure feasting materials. 

While passing Fleitmanhurst, Evelyn Gibbons 
joined us. She explained that she was going to Let- 
ter Box Grove to see what other people might receive 
from absent friends ; not because she expected to be 
remembered. “My step-father is like my husband. 
They don’t believe in celebrating Christmas. It’s 
years and years — ever since my mother died — since 
I’ve had any fun on that day.” Her tones were the 
cheerful ones that she customarily employs when 
speaking of the diversions which she would naturally 
enjoy and is denied. 

The mail carrier was unusually taray and in an un- 
usual hurry. He was hurried because he had prom- 
ised to take his “lady friend” to a dance eight miles 
east of Baldwin, and she insisted upon making an 
early start. Without tarrying to separate the va- 
rious packets of mail, he dumped the entire collection 
on to the snow and drove off, leaving the distribution 
to Richard, who divided our share into two bundles, 
one of which he entrusted to me. The well-borer and 
his wife walked with us as far as Fleitmanhurst, but 
at the point where our ways parted, a flat little 
packet, slipping from my bundle of mail, fell upon the 


228 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


snow. It was addressed to Mrs. Evelyn Gibbons, and 
she, uttering an exclamation of surprised delight, 
sprang to its rescue. But her husband was quicker. 
Swiftly stripping off the wrappings, he revealed an 
illustrated calendar with Seton Postlcy’s card at- 
tached. To an accompaniment of oaths, Gibbons 
tore the little volume apart and flung it into the can- 
yon with a force that sent the separated pages flut- 
tering like brightly colored birds amongst the tree 
branches. “That’s what I’ll do with that thar young 
dude — tear him to bits ! To Hell with his poetry talk 
and his French lingo !” he exclaimed. Then he strode 
homeward, slowly followed by his young wife, 
bons privately,” confessed Richard, “for I was sure 

“I had intended handing that packet to Mrs. Gib- 
that Seton was sending merely a little remembrance 
at this season, as he quite properly could do. After 
all,” he continued, “perhaps Gibbons is in the right — 
in his uncouth way — not to want his wife’s head filled 
with ideas not in keeping with her education and en- 
vironment. You’re partly to blame,” he went on, 
“for giving her those fool magazines devoted to dress 
and the doings of fashionable women.” 

“Her first ideas about society and fashionable pur- 
suits were received from Seton. That’s the only sort 
of life he knew anything about before coming here 
and, naturally — just at first — he talked about that 
life to her. She’s as pretty as any debutante ever 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 229 

brought out in the east,” I continued. “After a 
few months among well-bred people she’d appear as 
well as any of them.” 

“She’s a well-borer’s wife,” retorted Richard 
coldly. “Seton would best not forget that fact.” 

“One thing Seton has not forgotten,” I remarked 
after glancing through one of my letters, “is his 
promise to get me a right-of-way to the county road. 
He’s persuaded his mother to buy the Lorings’ ranch. 
They couldn’t resist an offer of seventy dollars an 
acre for it.” 

I looked at the little apple trees pushing their tops 
clear of the snow blanketing the orchard, at the tow- 
ering pump-house above the spring well, at the course 
which my legal road through the Loring place would 
take, and told myself that the “break away” from 
New York four years “come next March,” as Seldie 
would have phrased it, had been only for good. 

Shortly after luncheon on the last day of the year, 
a knock at the front door announced a visitor, and 
immediately afterward Josie Skookem stepped into 
the living-room, crossed to the stove and crouched 
beside it. While getting warm, she regarded me 
keenly. Finally, taking both hands in hers, she said : 
“You no have tom-tom to hit. You go big medicine 

man — to-morrow — early ” She turned half 

round and glanced through a window at a lowering 
sky — “for come heap big snow.” 


230 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


“But I’m much better than I was last winter, 
Josie.” 

The squaw persisted: “You heap sick — all inside. 
Go to-morrow when sun he get up or you no get ’way 
ever. You die up here in woods.” 

“Nonsense !” 

The Indian woman shook her head stubbornly. 
“You all same Josie sister. Josie no want you die. 
You heap sick. Go to-morrow see big medicine man.” 

Again she examined my fingernails, shook her head 
gravely, then drew her blanket about her and said 
“good-bye.” From the doorway she pointed to a 
mass of black clouds gathering in the west and re- 
peated : “Go to-morrow — soon sun get up.” 

“ J osie knows what she’s talking about,” said Rich- 
ard when the squaw’s words were repeated to him. 
“Better take her advice and some of mine with it. Go 
to Spokane and into a hospital. To become really ill 
while you’re a hundred miles from a first-class doctor 
would be to take the risk of not living to see your 
orchard reach a crop-bearing condition.” 

Long before dawn the next morning I was dressed 
and had breakfasted. So soon as there was enough 
light to see the fences and to avoid being scratched 
by their barbs, I struck the trail leading to Mullen 
Hill, Baldwin and the “heap big medicine man.” Al- 
though it was the idle season of the year during which 
the settlers might reasonably be visiting one another 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 231 


or going into the village, I met only three persons on 
the road. One of them was a German who told me his 
complicated name and assured me that it was easy to 
remember. It seemed to me to be so easy to forget 
that I knew I should have to minutely describe its 
owner to a man at Baldwin whom I was charged to 
seek out and then instruct him to telephone to a given 
point up-country in order to head off — by telephone 
— the brothers of the German who would be driving 
that afternoon to Baldwin to meet the later train, by 
which he had originally planned to arrive. As I was 
anxious to catch an east-bound train, I mentally put 
my curse upon the Hun for infringing upon my time, 
and hastened onward. On the portion of fenced-in 
road near the village I encountered two bareheaded 
Indian girls astride of gaily blanketed cayuses. At 
my approach one of the girls politely dropped be- 
hind the other, that there might be plenty of space on 
the road. Then both girls bowed graciously and said 
“Good-morning.” As they were passing, the leading 
girl, turning on her blanket saddle, asked: “Where 
you come from?” 

“Down that hill,” pointing backward. 

“What shack?” 

“Mira-Monte.” 

“Uh !” showing two rows of white, even teeth. “I 
come there some time.” 

“Please do,” I replied, and meant it. With an- 


282 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


other exchange of smiles, we parted, they going fur- 
ther into the wilderness to a shelter warmed by a 
bonfire on a floor of earth and a fare of dried fish 
and corn ; I toward civilization and its luxuries. 

The citizen to whom the German’s message had to 
be delivered was hard to find and because of this de- 
lay I missed the eastward bound train and was forced 
to spend the night at Baldwin. While in the Hotel 
Baldwin’s office, its landlady introduced to me a tall 
man wearing a horizontally striped black and white 
sweater that made him look like a zebra standing on 
two black legs. As she led the way upstairs, she apol- 
ogized: “That gentleman I just introduced you to 
has your usual room. He’s awful rich and I dassent 
put him out of it.” 

What the landlady put me into was an eight-foot, 
square cell with one tiny window, whose ill-fitting sash 
rattled noisily under the assault of every gust of 
wind. The pine floor, ceiling and walls were painted 
a shade of green brilliant enough to have cheered the 
most homesick of Erin’s sons. The temperature of 
this cell chilled my bones to their marrow, while my 
hostess was continuing her eulogy of the gentleman 
who had impressed me as convalescing from a pro- 
longed carouse. Above the first floor of that hotel 
there was not a vestige of heat nor indications of any 
means of providing it. I went to bed and for a while 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 233 

shivered between sheets of icy temperature while try- 
ing to read by the light of a lamp of feeble purpose. 
Finally, made desperate by discomfort, I put on all 
of my clothes, including sweater and topcoat, and, 
turning my face to the green wall, wooed sleep de- 
spite the sounds of music, laughter and shuffling of 
feet coming from the room below. Nevertheless, my 
curse was not put upon the revelers, for deprived of 
the nightly dances at the Hotel Baldwin the younger 
citizens of that hamlet would pass a forlorn winter. 
As the hotel is the resort of all the men of the region, 
there is no lack of partners for the village girls. 
There, too, the legally detached occasionally collide, 
as they glide with other partners, among the dancers. 

When a cock’s crow announced dawn, I knew that 
the household would soon be astir, and, despite the 
darkness still prevailing, slipped out of bed and into 
my overshoes, the only portion of my wardrobe not 
worn during the night. I was bent upon getting 
warm beside the stove in the kitchen whether the 
sovereign of that domain were cordial or otherwise. 
To my surprise a fire was burning briskly in the din- 
ing-room heater. Close to it sat a fat shoe drum- 
mer, and a lean representative of the ready-made 
cloak and suit industry. These pilgrims greeted me 
effusively, offered to share the early breakfast, which 
they had just bespoken and confessed that, wrapped 


234 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


in quilts, they had passed the hours between the close 
of the dance and the dawn of the day on the floor of 
the refectory. 

“Come unto me, my Indian maid!” cried the fat 
drummer, as Sally, carrying a heavily laden tray, 
entered the dining-room. The squaw did not vouch- 
safe a glance in his direction, but attended to her 
duties mechanically, moving quickly, albeit heavily 
and awkwardly, in her factory-made shoes. Every 
portion of her aboriginal garb had been discarded 
for the raiment of civilization. She looked really 
ludicrous in a sweat-shop tailored skirt’ of evil cut 
and a lingerie blouse whose coarse embroidery and 
lace revealed the dusky pelt of her neck and arms, 
and was completely satisfied with her altered appear- 
ance. 

“Better not get too fresh with that waitress. She’s 
a respectable married woman and a perfect lady. If 
you go too far she’ll slug you with her tray,” warned 
a middle-aged patron whom I recognized as the man 
from The Dalles who had kodaked the Letter Box 
Grove assemblage one summer morning several years 
before. He was seated at a table with two men of 
subdued aspect, and a scrawny, diamond-bedecked 
woman of querulous expression and conversation. 
The united efforts of her three companions were in- 
sufficient to pacify this fretful female. She loudly 
declared that no self-respecting pig would eat the 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 235 

food that Sally had set before her, nor remain in a 
dining-room which she knew had not been scrubbed 
within a decade. The manner of The Dalles delegate 
was so exceedingly propitiatory that we were greatly 
surprised to hear him say, after the lady had left the 
room, that he never had seen her before. He had 
talked kindly to her because he had “felt so darned 
sorry for them two fellers who have to have her 
snarlin’ ’round all the while.” 

As man is a creature to be avoided before he has 
breakfasted, and, if encountered, to be treated with 
gentleness, forbearance and infinite tact, I was vastly 
amazed, as well as amused, at the behavior of these 
three frontiersmen, and wondered if other men would 
act similarly were their womankind to behave so de- 
moniacally as did the discontented female patron at 
that village hostelry. 

In the hotel’s office where Mr. Tanner had been 
awaiting me, one of the group of men clustered about 
the stove, rose and bowed so ceremoniously that his 
football suite of hair nearly swept the floor. 

“How do you happen to know D. T.P” demanded 
the white-haired pioneer in scandalized tones, as we 
left the hotel. 

“Who is D. T.?” 

“Why, that black an’ white striped feller who was 
a-settin’ by the stove.” 

“He must be the gentleman whom the landlady in- 


236 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


troduced last evening, but the office was so dark that 
I didn’t see his face distinctly. And I don’t know his 
name.” 

“Nor nobody else don’t round here. They jest call 
him D. T. He’s a city chap whose folks has sent him 
up here where they ain’t no liquor sold, to sober up. 
He gets full reg’lar — every night. Because o’ this 
bein’ a prohibition town the fellers that drinks at all, 
drinks their whiskey by the quart instead of by the 
finger’s depth — the reasonable way.” 

“System all run down,” announced the “heap big 
medicine man” at Spokane, “but a fortnight in the 
hospital will work wonders. After that a tonic 
should complete the cure.” 

During my enforced absence from Klickitat came 
several letters from Mrs. Gibbons, and the day before 
my departure from the hospital came one from Rich- 
ard, saying that the well-borer was considering the 
acceptance of an offer to buy his outfit, in which 
event he intended to settle upon a quarter section. 
A relinquishment, fifty miles up-country, was on the 
market, and Richard had agreed to go with Gibbons 
to inspect this property on condition that during 
their absence Mrs. Gibbons would live in our shack, 
in order to feed Collie and Lila, and have the rooms 
heated against my expected arrival there. 

Reaching Baldwin after noon of the following day, 
I found Mr, Carpenter, as once before, at the post- 


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THE LITTLE TREES ARE NOW MORE THAN FOUR YEARS OLD 















































































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APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 237 


office, and, in front of its door, the antiquated sorrel 
attached to a wagon already so heavily laden that I 
hesitated to even add my small suitcase to the bur- 
den. To take a passenger was obviously out of the 
question. So I started to walk slowly home, confi- 
dently expecting to reach there soon after the arrival 
of the Carpenter equipage. A recent Chinook wind 
had melted the snow, and the air was so mild that my 
topcoat soon became burdensome. Its open fronts 
revealed the silver belt — much-prized gift of Seton 
Postley — and its glitter probably attracted the at- 
tention of two Italians — both strangers at Baldwin 
— for their persistent staring was commented upon 
by Mr. Tanner, when we met near his former store. 
“You won’t have any difficulty in keeping up with 
Carpenter,” he said, “because the goin’s so hard for 
horses since the last thaw. Mebbe you’d better stay 
the night here and let me drive you home to-morrow 
mornin’.” When I had explained that Mrs. Gib- 
bons was alone at our shack and might be frightened 
to stay there with only Collie for company, he warned 
me to “walk fast,” and “if you have lost sight of Car- 
penter by the time you get opposite to Josie’s place, 
get her to ride home alongside of you.” 

The ancient sorrel was still sleeping soundly before 
the post-office when I left the village and struck a 
trail leading straight to the base of Mullen Hill 
Iload. After proceeding for a half-hour or more. 


238 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


I glanced backward. Two men were following, but 
at too great a distance to be recognized. Of Mr. 
Carpenter there was no sign. Far ahead, several 
dark figures near the railway tracks indicated the 
presence of a gang of laborers. As their foreman 
would certainly be a white man, I could remain near 
him until the two strange men had passed along or 
Mr. Carpenter should appear. But between these 
laborers and myself was the stretch of road bordered 
on one side by the forest and on the other by the high, 
board fence, which prevents horses from getting a 
view of trains on the tracks skirting the banks of the 
Big Klickitat. For a moment I paused irresolutely. 
Then, reasoning that the two Italians, as I assumed 
the approaching men to be, were probably honest 
laborers, bound for some up-country ranch, contin- 
ued on my way. But no sooner had I gained the 
stretch of fenced-in road than a panic of nervousness 
seized me and sent me scurrying along, looking for a 
way out of what seemed a trap. The sight of a 
narrow opening among the bushes growing at the 
edge of the forest’s side of the road, and showing 
where a cow trail had at some past period led straight 
down to the river, impelled me to climb the steep 
bank. The fact that the two men were no longer to 
be seen, proved that they had quickened their pace 
and were temporarily concealed by a bend of the 
road. I knew that they must soon again come into 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 239 

view. Crouched behind a cluster of bushes which 
probably had grown since the trail had been aban- 
doned, because of the building of the railway fence 
above the river bank, I waited until the Italians, 
laughing and gesticulating after the manner of their 
race, had passed along the road directly below 
my eerie. During the next few minutes I men- 
tally retracted my suspicions regarding them and 
was about to descend and continue on my way 
when they stopped. They had reached an ab- 
rupt turn of the road, which showed clearly that no 
human being was traveling it for at least a mile 
ahead of themselves. Apparently nonplussed, and,' 
from their gestures, excited and angry with one an- 
other, they began to retrace their steps. Then came 
the illuminating idea that they had not seen me take 
the road following the river, and that when reaching 
the forks below the first curve of the trail, they in- 
stinctively had selected the road which appeared to 
be the most frequently traveled. Their behavior 
seemed to indicate that they had no real business up- 
country, had not asked for geographical information 
at the village, and probably had not intended to re- 
turn there after securing my silver belt. I watched 
them until they were hidden by the first sharp turn 
of the road. Then, anxious to know if Mr. Carpen- 
ter and the drowsy sorrel were approaching, grad- 
ually moved higher up the side of the steep bank, 


240 APPLE WOMAN OF TIIE KLICKITAT 


giving slight heed to my footing, and, tripping, fell 
headlong against a boulder. 

When consciousness returned, the scene was ob- 
scured by darkness, but the roar of the turbulent Big 
Klickitat helped me to soon realize what had hap- 
pened, though not the full extent of the predicament 
until I attempted to stand up. That effort was fol- 
lowed by the almost intolerable pain of a sprained 
ankle. Because the moon was not visible, I knew 
that the night was still young and that there was 
scant hope of obtaining aid before morning when Mr. 
Tanner would be passing that way and were some 
bright object to lie directly in his path, the old pio- 
neer’s keen eyes would be certain to see it. Strug- 
gling to my knees, I unclasped the silver belt and 
flung it toward the road. It struck somewhere with 
a resounding ring, but the effort resulted in a second 
loss of consciousness, from which I was aroused by 
something damp and cold upon my face. The risen 
moon revealed the outlines of the forest trees, bushes, 
boulders, and the familiar shapes of a little woman 
and a big dog. 

“Lucky this isn’t a cold night,” said Evelyn Gib- 
bons, as she bent over me, “or you’d have been frozen 
to death. Try to warm your hands on the glass of 
the lantern.” 

“How did you happen to come here ?” 

“Collie led me. He made me come. It was long 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 241 


after dark when Mr. Carpenter came with your bag, 
and when he said you’d left the village first and that 
he’d seen nothing of you since, we decided that you’d 
stopped at Josie’s and she’d persuaded you to spend 
the night there. I’d been in bed hours ago only for 
Collie. He kept running to the door, and smelling 
of a dress, lying on the couch in your room. 
Then he began to howl. He carried on something 
fierce. He’d scratch on the door and I’d let him go 
out. But in two minutes he’d be there wanting to 
come in, all the while moaning and howling like mad, 
and seeming to ask what I meant by sitting there in 
the warmth and light when you were somewhere in the 
cold and dark. Two or three times I went to the 
bar-gate and listened and waited, thinking you might 
be coming along. All I could hear was the coyotes 
barking down in the canyon and those queer whisper- 
ings of the trees. Haven’t you noticed,” she inter- 
polated, “what a queer, sighing sound the leaves make 
when you wake up in the middle of the night? And 
the woods looked so awful dark — just a solid black, 
like it could be cut with a knife. I got afraid of — 
oh, I don’t know what — but every time I’d try to read 
I’d get thinking that perhaps you’d never got to 
Josie’s, but might have got hurt on the way; per- 
haps slipped down the bank at that steep place near 
the forks of the road, or else had tumbled on to the 
railroad track and was waiting — unconscious — to be 


242 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


run over by the Goldendale train. Finally, I took the 
lantern and Collie, and went to the end of the wagon 
track, and then through the woods road. It was 
awful dark along there, but by the time we’d reached 
the letter-boxes the moon had come out. From there 
on, Collie led. But every few minutes he’d come tear- 
ing back, begging me to hurry. I was wondering if 
he meant to take me clear to Baldwin when he stopped 
down below here, in the middle of the road. Then I 
knew he’d found something of yours. He kept his 
paw on that belt until I picked it up. Then he ran 
straight up here. That’s all.” 

All! Traveling for half of a night through the 
primeval forest with only the protection of a dog, 
and with no thought of fatigue or of attack from a 
renegade Indian or a drunken laborer. Nor did Eve- 
lyn Gibbons deem it a hardship to sit on the ground 
beside me while the moon — sailing now high, now low, 
cast weird shadows upon the wild landscape, while 
from near at hand came the bark of prowling coyotes, 
and, from far off, the intermittent cry of a cougar. 
Collie, crouching close at our feet, watched with us 
for the dawn which flared up suddenly in the east 
not long after the moon had set and the last star had 
faded out of the sky. Then the well-borer’s wife 
cushioned my head upon her ulster and rose stiffly to 
her feet. “I’ll go for Josie’s hack and we’ll soon get 
you home,” she said, and hurried down the trail. In 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 243 

an incredibly short time she was back, accompanied 
by Josie, who, taking me across her back, like a sack 
of meal, bore me to the road and deposited me in her 
hack.” Collie rode with us despite Josie’s pro- 
tests and we four proceeded homeward, the weary lit- 
tle wife of Jack Gibbons stretched at full length in 
the back of the wagon with her brown head pillowed 
on Collie’s red-gold coat, and I perched upon the seat 
beside the squaw. 

Thus it happened that Richard and Mr. Gibbons, 
returning at noon of that day, found Josie com- 
pounding a healing lotion of aromatic herbs and 
Evelyn installed as housekeeper pro tern. 

The well-borer had not liked the up-country claim 
and almost immediately started to investigate some 
others east of The Dalles. Josie, having completed 
her work, was about to start for home and might 
quite conveniently have driven Mr. Gibbons to Bald- 
win. She positively refused to have anything what- 
ever to do with him and drove away in solitary state. 

“You folks kin understand that my wife ain’t no- 
body’s hired girl. She’s cookin’ here because it suits 
her to do it,” explained Mr. Gibbons with his habit- 
ual grace of expression when he was ready to start 
on his journey. “Don’t you and your sister make 
no mistake about that, Van Cortlandt.” 

“That fellow’s aggressive ways have made a lot 
of enemies for him hereabout, and it’s a good thing 


244 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


he’s going away,” remarked Richard, while Mrs. Gib- 
bons was dutiably walking to the gate with her mo- 
rose helpmate. “But it will be lonely for that little 
woman on an up-country ranch as far from any 
neighbors as her husband can get.” 

“Her beauty will mature and nobody will be there 
to appreciate it; after a time it will fade and nobody 
will care,” I sighed. Having no real grievance of 
my own, it was easy to worry over another’s mis- 
fortunes. 

“She’ll be as well off in the end as though she 
had had an opportunity to see the more brilliant 
phases of life,” replied Richard the philosophical. 

When Evelyn had bidden Gibbons good-bye at the 
bar-gate, she came running into the house. Her face 
was flushed, smiling and happy. “It’s so much nicer 
to be staying over here with you two friends than all 
alone at Fleitmanhurst !” she exclaimed. 

To have Evelyn here is a great privilege. Never- 
theless, I am rejoicing that she is soon to leave these 
parts, being oppressed with the fear that Seton may 
change his mind about returning here or that Josie’s 
enmity toward Gibbons may result tragically. I am 
sure that were anything to happen to him his young 
wife would be honestly grieved, and said as much this 
morning to Seldie, who appeared unexpectedly. As 
her funds are getting low she has returned from Port- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 245 

land to Her boarding camp and the region whose 
general storekeeper will extend her credit. 

“Sure, she’d be sorry !” agreed the ex-dressmaker, 
“but she’d soon get over it — and a good thing, too. 
Otherwise, she’d stay a widow and she ain’t cut out 
by Nature for getting along by herself. She un- 
consciously gives out so much love that she’s bound to 
get a lot of it in return — excepting from jealous cats 
like Mrs. Blacke-McCormick and her gang. Deliver 
me from a country neighborhood,” she went on, 
roused to wrath by the remembrance of the gossip at 
the last meeting of the sewing circle. “Folks around 
here has so little of genuine interest to talk about, 
that they naturally make up stuff. Just now they’re 
taken up with tryin’ to believe that Mis’ Jack Gib- 
bons is a designin’ hussy, when all the time they know 
perfectly well she’s a simple, good-natured little girl 
who never had a wrong thought in her life. Aside 
from the McCormick cat, the rest of these women 
ain’t downright malicious and if something really se- 
rious was to happen to the Gibbonses, they’d forgive 
her quick as scat for everything they’re pretendin’ 
to believe of her.” 

“So long as Mrs. Gibbons keeps that pretty face 
and graceful figure, she’ll have enemies,” declared 
Richard, having the final word against Seldie, which 
is, indeed, a triumph. 


246 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


“This morning I came specially to say that I’d 
stay here and chaperone Evelyn — and help her to 
cook for Mr. Van Cortlandt — if you’d like to go back 
to Portland for a few days to see a surgeon about 
that ankle. Josie Skookem knows a lot but she ain’t 
no medical college graduate. If some of the little 
bits of bones in that foot of yours has been broken, 
she'll never find it out.” 

This offer was gratefully accepted, although Rich- 
ard looked glum at the prospect of having to listen 
for a week to Seldie’s unlimited flow of words. Josie, 
as it proved, had not made a mistake, but it was a 
satisfaction to hear an expert bone-setter corrobo- 
rate her diagnosis. 


CHAPTER XIX 


The well-borer is dead. His way of leaving this 
world fully atoned for whatever sins he may have 
committed while in it. Nobody says this more fre- 
quently than his former foes, Josie Skookem and In- 
dian Jim, although they were not among those who 
saw him sacrifice his life for Little Jim. Unnoticed, 
the little fellow had followed Mr. Tanner from the 
freight-house to the wharf, but, instead of staying 
close beside the white-haired pioneer as was his cus- 
tom, the boy had wandered toward the bluffs. One 
among the group of Indians, villagers and orchard- 
ists assembled at the wharf watching the simultan- 
eous arrival of the steamers from Portland, and The 
Dalles, happened to glance upward, saw the gaudily 
garbed little figure poised on the edge of the black 
rocks threatening the Columbia, and shouted a warn- 
ing in Chinook. Instantly several Klickitats and 
whites ran forward, shouting, in a vain attempt to 
attract the boy’s attention to themselves and away 
from the river. But Little Jim, fascinated by the 
sight of the approaching steamers which puffed and 
wheezed as they flung gray clouds from their tall, 
247 


248 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


yellow pipes and churned the waters into foaming bil- 
lows with their huge wheels, saw only these wonder 
canoes of the white man, and, eagerly stretching his 
brown arms toward them, lost his balance. Like a 
brilliant ball, turning over and over, as it seemed to 
me, watching from the up-river steamer’s deck, he 
fell into the swift-rushing, ice-cold flood of the mighty 
Columbia. The shouts of the throng upon the wharf 
were echoed by the passengers on the decks of both 
steamers: the next instant we on the Portland boat 
saw evidences of excitement among the people gath- 
ered at the bow of the smaller craft. Then the crowd 
parted and a tall, black-haired man leaped upon the 
railing, jumped from it into the river and swam rap- 
idly toward the drowning child. Quick, sharp com- 
mands came from the captains of both steamers, sig- 
nal bells clanged and deckhands hastily lowered 
dingeys. 

“He’s got him ! He’s got the kid, sure ! He’s saved 
Little Jim !” shouted the people on the wharf and the 
steamers, as they saw the boy straddle the swimmer’s 
neck and bury his little fingers in his coarse, black 
hair. “They’re all right now !” 

But were they all right? Suddenly the swimmer’s 
strong, swift strokes ceased. He shouted something 
unintelligible to the crowd on the wharf and then, 
freeing himself of his burden, sank out of sight under 
the waters. 



WRAPPED SEPARATELY, THE FRUIT IS PACKED IN BUSHEL BOXES, WORTH NET 

ONE DOLLAR PER BOX 








































































































































































APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 249 

“Poor Gibbons has got a cramp !” exclaimed Percy 
Nelson, flinging off his coat and jumping into the 
river. His example was promptly followed by several 
Klickitats and white men, one of whom soon had Lit- 
tle Jim in his grasp : The man who had dared death 
for the sake of an “Injun’s kid” was beyond human 
aid when laid upon the wharf. In his pocket were 
found the deed for the back-country relinquishment, 
purchased the previous day from an agent at The 
Dalles, and a letter from a man agreeing to pay five 
hundred dollars for the well-boring machine. 

Despite the arguments of Richard and Percy, who 
had driven Nan down to Baldwin to meet me, the 
neighboring Klickitats insisted upon heading the 
band of settlers that accompanied Jack Gibbons’ 
body from the village to Fleitmanhurst. The weird 
procession started at twilight and its way up the 
steep hill and along the wood roads was illumined 
with rude torches that cast long, grotesque shadows 
before the marchers, and threw strange gleams of 
light into the dim recesses of the primeval forest. 
The white friends marched silently. The Indians 
beat tom-toms and their squaws continually uttered 
mournful howls. It was after midnight when Evelyn 
Gibbons, awakened by the sounds of savage music and 
voices, and the tramping of many feet on the road 
leading toward Fleitmanhurst, sat half up in her bed 
and murmured drowsily to Seldie : “Indians celebrat- 


250 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 

in g something or other,” and slept again, the while 
her neighbors, white and red, carried her dead hus- 
band to her home. Two days later we buried him 
atop of one of the hills overlooking the little home- 
stead. This was the request of his widow, “because 
Jack always said he hadn’t any folks but me, and 
this,” glancing about the shack which they had occu- 
pied together, “is the only real home we ever had 
after we were married.” Later she asked : “Couldn’t 
I stay right on here and earn a living by baking 
and mending for bachelors and grass widowers?” 
Her voice was pathetically wistful, and Richard 
hastened to assure her that she was welcome to 
the use of the shack for as long as she cared to 
stay there. “But you won’t have to work for your 
living,” he continued. “The price of the well-boring 
outfit will bring in enough income to feed and clothe 
you — if you’re willing to accept five thousand dollars 
for it.” 

“Is the machine worth that much?” Evelyn Gib- 
bons was as frankly surprised as I was secretly as- 
tonished at the amount of the offer. 

“The machine is worth whatever anyone will pay 
you for it,” was Richard’s evasive reply, as he 
handed me a telegram brought to the ranch that 
morning by a special messenger from Baldwin. It 
read: “Have seen associated press story of well- 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 251 


borer and Little Jim. Offer Evelyn five thousand 
dollars for the outfit. Seton Postley.” 

Seldie, as staunch a friend as she is an enemy, 
abandoned her plan of enlarging her river boarding 
camp, and, without any warning whatsoever, trans- 
ferred herself and her trunk to Fleitmanhurst. “It 
won’t be for long, Mr. Van Cortlandt,” she remarked 
enigmatically. “Anyone with a head less thick than 
a post’s could guess who paid the five thousand dol- 
lars for that second-hand well-boring machine. If 
Evelyn lives alone, Mrs. Blacke-McCormick will lie 
awake nights inventing slanders that too many peo- 
ple round here will be ready to believe.” 


CHAPTER XX 


Richard is unaware that I had only six thou- 
sand dollars when I bought this quarter section with- 
out having seen it or knowing enough to know that 
“a place without water’s no good,” to quote from the 
Blacke-McCormick lexicon. He guesses that I saved 
considerably more money than those few thousands 
during the years devoted to journalism, though in 
those days he often chided me for my senseless ex- 
travagances. It is, however, so pleasant to be cred- 
ited with more thrift than I am entitled to, that I 
refrain from mentioning my bank account and pri- 
vately practice economies that, did he know of them, 
would make him call my bluff. Fortunate, indeed, 
was I to be able to sell enough stuff to various east- 
ern periodicals to pay Richard the money advanced 
for the boring of the well, its pump, gasolene engine 
and tower house. So much scribbling not only oc- 
cupied many of the winter days and evenings follow- 
ing Gibbons’ tragic death, but kept me busy in the 
intervals of superintending the spring discing of the 
orchard acreage and pruning of the trees, the four 
sprayings between budding and cropping times and 
?53 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 253 


the packing of one hundred boxes of apples. My 
own big, beautiful apples ! All of them delicious, 
though some of them are called after King David. 
For the little trees in the hillside orchard are now 
over four years old. Yesterday Seldie, Evelyn, some 
of the Tanners and I drank to their continued health 
in Hood River cider sent to us by Philip Trevor, who 
piously endeavors to make prohibitionists of all of 
his friends. In rare instances he partly succeeds. 
Incidentally, we, in common with the rest of the coun- 
tryside, observed Thanksgiving Day, passing nearly 
all of the time in the open, so exceptionally balmy is 
this autumn’s weather. But for the brown and gold 
of the woods and the absence of the birds, we might 
imagine ourselves facing summer instead of winter. 

At this season the sunset effects are sublime. As 
day begins to wane, all sorts of shapes and colors are 
assumed by the clouds assembled about Hood’s eter- 
nally white-capped peak. While watching one of 
these spectacles, it is easy to understand why the 
Japanese reverence their Fugi-yama. I am quite 
ready to believe that a beautiful goddess dwells 
within Mt. Hood, and Pagan enough to wish that she 
would emerge, that I might offer her homage. Yet 
there are persons who believe that I would part with 
my orchard, its matchless view and its peace for four 
times as much as I paid for it five years ago last Jan- 
uary. One of these phlegmatic creatures is ^ Port- 


254 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


land real estate agent, who writes: “You are simply 
vegetating on that hill, a hundred miles from any- 
where, when you might be living comfortably on the 
income of what a client of mine will pay for your 
quarter section. He says he can make a gentleman’s 
country place of the home “forty,” because the nat- 
ural beauty of the land has been carefully preserved, 
whereas it might have been destroyed by an axe in 
the hands of an ignoramous. He plans to cut up 
the remainder of the quarter section into forty-acre 
holdings for bungalow parks.” That Portland capi- 
talist is going to change his plans in so far as this 
place is concerned. He shall not have my home, my 
orchard or my view. Neither shall he “bungalow- 
ize” the remaining hundred and twenty acres for the 
benefit of summer pleasure-seekers. These wooded 
acres happen to be the summer abiding place of cer- 
tain valued friends of my own. The birds shall not 
be threatened nor driven away. Moreover, a flock 
of summer idlers would not fit into this picturesque 
landscape as do Josie Skookem, Sally, the two Jims, 
and their kindred. Anyhow, I shall not sell for that 
perfectly womanly reason “because.” 

Not long ago this Portland real estate agent, who 
frequently prowls about this neighborhood seeking 
whom he may devour, said to me : “Had you not been 
able to earn money with your pen, you couldn’t have 
done much toward developing this land.” He should 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 255 

know that any woman with a pair of capable hands 
and the spirit to use them can do much toward de- 
veloping an orchard within five years. A graduate 
of a normal college, for instance, might secure the 
appointment of teacher of the district school and de- 
vote the major portion of her salary to the clearing 
and planting of a small orchard, say five acres. 
Richard and Seldie have frequently remarked that a 
woman who would set up a tiny shop at Letter Box 
Grove for the convenience of settlers needing in- 
numerable small articles, could probably net eight or 
ten dollars a week, and yet have time to do every- 
thing to her orchard save the plowing. If the Dan- 
ish Swansens, working in their half-hearted, desultory 
style, can eke out an existence with their butter-mak- 
ing and chicken-raising, surely a woman working 
whole-heartedly and toward the goal of independence, 
could earn the money with which to pay for all the 
extra labor needed to develop her land. Then there 
is Seldie’s example to be followed — to a limited ex- 
tent. A spring, summer and autumn boarding camp 
in the wilderness could be made to pay a hundred per 
cent profit that could be expended upon man labor, 
farming implements and horses — or a motor tractor. 
A still, small voice tells me that I am destined to be 
ensnared by a motor tractor agent some day, as the 
literature received from one of them has a fatal fas- 
cination for me. How glorious to go careering over 


256 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


the country, pulling out stumps and scattering earth 
by the ton! Collie would fully enter into the spirit 
of it. Would the Indians think it a devil wagon ? I 
am always wondering what these red people privately 
think of the habits and belongings of their white 
neighbors : and if those opinions, so carefully 
guarded, are flattering. Whenever groups of these 
aborigines are chatting together in Chinook on the 
river boats and in the village, I suspect that they are 
extracting amusement from our garb and our affecta- 
tions. The calm of the Klickitats is restful. They 
do not upset one’s nerves by jumping about and do- 
ing meaningless things. Because their movements in- 
variably seem to be purposeful, their minds probably 
are so. 

All the Indian women look much older than 
their actual age, and, as they apparently pass di- 
rectly from a full-faced girlhood into a semi-withered, 
elderly state, they practically have no middle age. 
The blooming, flirtatious young matron of the Cau- 
casian race is unknown to aboriginal Klickitat so- 
ciety. 

That white-bearded, leading pioneer, Mr. John 
Tanner, says that the Indian woman ages prema- 
turely because her life is a hard one. I fail to see 
what is the hardship of an existence passed chiefly in 
the open whenever desirable, yet sufficiently sheltered 
from the elements. As the average squaw is stout 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 257 


and of strong physique, she obviously gets enough 
nourishing food. Certain it is that the full-grown 
Indian man or woman must be blessed with a marvel- 
ous constitution since the great mortality among the 
infants of the red race proves that those who reach 
maturity instance the survival of the fittest. The 
American aboriginal struggles through infancy under 
most adverse conditions. When a papoose becomes 
ill, a medicine man beats a tom-tom for the benefit 
of the sufferer, instead of advising its mother to wash 
its mouth with a solution of soda water and herself 
with hot suds. Moreover, every squaw covers her 
baby’s face with so many layers of blanketing that 
one wonders how it can possibly breathe or why it 
does not acquire sore eyes from its germ-infected 
veils. Yet a papoose with impaired vision or an erup- 
tive skin is rare. This is probably because a young 
child having any sort of physical affliction has a 
slender chance to regain its health or to live at all 
on account of the nomadic habits of its parents and 
their carelessness about sanitation. 

Despite a reputation for phlegmatism, a squaw is 
always greatly distressed when her papoose dies. 
She is more apt, when thus bereaved, to seek the sym- 
pathy of a white neighbor rather than that of her 
own brave who is quite likely to apply the lash if 
the deceased child was a boy. It matters not to some 
Indian fathers how many infant daughters sicken 


258 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


and die. There will be others, if not by the 
present consort, then by her successor. Sometimes 
the first wife does not wait for the Great Spirit to 
release her of her lord and task-master. If a hus- 
band develops a particularly unpleasant disposition, 
the modern squaw is not dilatory about devising a 
means of getting away from him. But she does not 
desert him for some other man, red or white. The 
Klickitat woman is not polygamous and she has 
small patience with those of her sex who are so. The 
few aboriginal girls who go wrong are not of those 
who remain with their nomadic, semi-barbarous par- 
ents, but of those taken from the reservations by a 
paternal government and sent to school where they 
learn many things in addition to the three R’s.' Josie 
loudly denounces Uncle Sam’s seminaries for his 
copper-hued nieces: “My little girl she no go Injun 
school. Home with me, I know all what she do.” 

Nearly always the civilization imparted by educa- 
tion to an Indian girl is merely surface deep. While 
living among white people she endures shoes, stock- 
ings and a hat, but the moment she returns to her 
natural environment, she puts on moccasins, blanket 
and head-kerchief. Quite promptly she casts aside 
her acquired habits. Of what use are the domestic 
arts in a home lacking a range to cook upon, 
napery to wash and a wooden floor to scrub? 
The aboriginal manner of housekeeping involves 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 259 


scarcely any work and leaves the housekeeper an 
abundance of leisure for roaming through the for- 
ests, riding over shaded trails, and picking wild fruits 
on the mountainsides. To upset an Indian woman’s 
traditions and in exchange for them give her elastic 
laws of morality and the nerve-racking customs of 
civilization, seem to me to be wrongs which the red 
race have to revenge in addition to that of being 
driven from their hereditary hunting grounds. 


CHAPTER XXX 


Myriads of pale green leaves deck the young apple 
trees of Mira-Monte’s orchard, but this wealth of 
foliage does not obscure our view of Mt. Hood. Se- 
ton Postley declares that the scene from the shack’s 
veranda is more enchanting than when he first saw 
it. But Seton, as well as the orchard, is several years 
older, and, judging by the altered expression of his 
eyes and his mouth, sees all things with a clearer 
vision. His arrival was heralded by Mr. John Tan- 
ner and Little Jim, who kept Collie in a highly ex- 
cited state, as they drove through the bar-gate and 
between the rose-trees bordering the park and sep- 
arating it from the vegetable garden. Not until the 
brown cayuses had been tethered to the trunk of our 
roof-tree did the white-haired pioneer explain that 
he had brought a passenger up Mullen Hill : 

“Me an’ Little Jim’s plum wore out a-listenin’ to 
poetry talk. Since we picked him up at the boat 
landin’ that there young Postley, what spent a sum- 
mer here a spell back, done nothing but make a fuss 
about the views an’ the way the birds is singin’ to 
each other, an’ the fast’ation of the forest prime - 
260 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 261 

evil. He let on that all the while he was travelin’ 
across the country from back east, he could jest see 
how Klickitat was a-lookin’ with the flowers 
a-spreadin’ of theirselves all over the hills an’ the 
rivulets a-runnin’ like silver threads through the can- 
yons, an’ all because of the joy of summer bein’ in 
his heart. Them was his words, as near as I can re- 
member. I s’pose he’ll be along here after a spell, 
though he didn’t jes’ state the time. He didn’t wait 
to say anythin’ after he see that little widow woman 
of Gibbonses’ a-settin’ on her doorstep. He jest 
jumped out of the hack and run over to her. I s’pose 
she’ll soon be leavin’ here along of him,” mused the 
old pioneer, the while he thoughtfully stroked his 
white whiskers. “Yet it’s a good place to stop in — 
this country of the Klickitats.” 

We did not reply that Seton had come to live in 
this country of the Klickitats because to circulate 
that news is his own business. Anyhow, the neigh- 
bors will invent plenty of news when they see a throng 
of carpenters building a bungalow de luxe on the 
highest hill of the property purchased by Seton from 
the Lorings, and a much larger force of workmen 
clearing twenty acres of orchard land. Seton is go- 
ing in for orcharding, because, as he pertly ex- 
plained, “he can profit by all of my mistakes.” At 
the same time he is putting all responsibility upon 
my shoulders by making me general superintendent 


262 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


at a salary of twenty-five dollars per month. This 
is a welcome job, for I have agreed to buy a motor 
tractor. Five hundred dollars is not too much to 
pay for a machine guaranteed to go over the ground 
with any of the cultivating implements drawn by 
horses. And when it is not working it will not be 
eating. The fact that horses must be fed in and out 
of season was one of two reasons why I employed men 
owning teams to do my clearing and cultivating. The 
other reason was the fear of depleting my capital to 
the extent of eight hundred dollars and with that 
money acquiring, possibly, a pair of animals tem- 
peramentally opposed to pulling a pound of weight. 

Speaking of capital brings to mind a question often 
put to me in letters from friends in the east, who 
fancy they would like to go into business in the west : 
“How much capital does a person need to embark in 
apple-growing?” It would be as easy to say how 
many blades of grass there are to an acre of land, 
because of the difference in people. But one well- 
known case may be cited. About eighteen years ago 
a postman of Portland, Oregon, went to Hood River 
in the same state, with a few hundred dollars, and 
there purchased a forty-acre tract*. At intervals it 
was necessary for him to take employment away from 
home to support his family, but meanwhile, he 
cleared and planted his land. Within twelve years 
he developed a thirty-acre orchard, which could not 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 263 


to-day be bought for less than fifty thousand dollars. 
Starting practically without cash capital, within less 
than two decades this ex-letter carrier has achieved a 
fortune. Any man or woman who has the ambition 
to succeed, backed by determination and energy, can 
scarcely fail to make a comfortable living during the 
years while the apple orchard is maturing. 

An easily answered question is: “How much land 
does an apple-grower need ?” Where there is a large 
capital to draw upon, the more acreage the better; 
because no sure investment will pay so large a divi- 
dend as will fruit lands in the states of the Pacific 
Northwest. Where the capital is moderate, it is un- 
wise to attempt to develop more than fifteen acres; 
ten acres would be the strictly conservative amount. 
Where there is practically no capital, it is advisable 
to clear only two or three acres at a time and have 
the trees on those growing while earning money for 
the clearing of more land. 

When one remembers that the states of Washing- 
ton and Oregon are each larger than Pennsylvania, 
New York and Delaware combined, it is difficult to 
tell the would-be orchardist where to go. The high- 
est-priced land is naturally nearest to the fruit sec- 
tions of world-wide reputation, but it is not neces- 
sarily the best land. While some capitalists are to- 
day buying the old and highly productive orchards 
round about Hood River, Oregon; near White Sal- 


264 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


mon, on the north bank of the Columbia River, and 
in the vicinity of Wenatchee, Washington, others are 
acquiring large tracts of unimproved acres further 
eastward in the country of the Northern Pacific Rail- 
way’s course, because such lands are still compara- 
tively cheap. Raw land, more or less timbered, is 
worth from ten to fifty dollars per acre; depending 
upon value of the timber — if any — and ease of cul- 
tivation after being cleared. Slightly rolling land 
is preferred for orchards, the more level areas being 
used for wheat, etc. The cost of clearing averages 
one hundred dollars per acre, and sometimes runs 
considerably beyond that. Cleared land — raw — is 
worth from one hundred to two hundred dollars per 
acre. Planted to orchard, the values vary, accord- 
ing to age of trees, kind of fruit, and condition ; and 
are worth from two hundred dollars to a thousand 
dollars per acre. The prospective orchardist, how- 
ever, should settle as near to others as possible, and 
preferably close to a section which has or soon will 
have a fruit association, because one can greatly 
profit by watching and imitating the methods of ex- 
perienced and successful neighbors. There is much 
to be learned about cultivation. This work includes 
plowing in the autumn, discing in the spring, and 
harrowing continuously until the first of August. 
The aim is to keep a dust mulch about two inches 
deep all the time. The cost of doing this — if the 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 265 


labor must be hired — is twenty-five to thirty dollars 
per acre. 

No part«of the work is more important than spray- 
ing, which should be done thoroughly not less than 
four times each season. For apples, the first spray 
— lime sulphur, one gallon to fifteen gallons of water, 
adding three-quarters of a pint “Black Leaf 40” to 
each one hundred gallons of water — is done when the 
buds begin to show green or to burst. If aphids are 
present, use Bordeaux nozzle. The second spray — 
one gallon to twenty-five of water — should be given 
just before the blossom buds separate in the cluster 
and show pink, using the mist nozzle. The third 
spray — lime sulphur, one gallon to thirty-five gallons 
of water and five pounds of arsenate of lead per one 
hundred gallons of water, should be given just after 
the petals fall, using the calix nozzle. The fourth 
spray, given from ten to fourteen days after the third 
spray, is the same in all respects. If the weather is 
very hot at the time of the last two sprayings, great 
care is necessary to prevent “burning or scalding.” 
Atonic sulphur, twelve pounds to one hundred gal- 
lons of water is less dangerous, but as it is very ex- 
pensive, is seldom used. 

If the autumn rains begin early and the season has 
been favorable for scab, it is often advisable to spray 
in September, using lime sulphur, one gallon to 
thirty-five gallons of water. Practically all orchard- 


266 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


ists having ten or more acres now use a power (gaso- 
lene) sprayer, holding either one hundred or two hun- 
dred gallons, and using two sets of hose. Under 
favorable conditions, with water easily obtainable, 
the power sprayer will do from ten to twenty acres in 
ten hours, according to age of trees. This requires 
two men to spray and a driver of two or three horses 
or a tractor. At the risk of being accused of being 
a paid booster of the tractor manufacturers, I must 
say that I cannot see why anyone should prefer a 
horse and his stable to a motor tractor and a neat 
little gasolene tank. 

As the market demands large apples, thinning is 
imperative. This can be done as soon as fruit is as 
large as a pea, but most orchardists wait until after 
the “June drop,” when all but one are removed from 
each cluster. When apples are the size of a golf ball, 
they must not be closer than five inches apart, and 
never , under any condition , permitted to touch each 
other . 

Having grown a crop, do not consider that the 
work of the season is over with. Begin in October, 
according to the class of apples, whether “autumn” 
or “winter,” to prepare for the picking and packing 
of the orchard’s produce. The packer must be an 
expert and have a certificate from one of the As- 
sociations. A clever packer will put out about one 
hundred boxes in ten hours — the Washington state 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 267 

working day — and receives about five cents per box. 
The sorters sort according to quality, and grade ac- 
cording to size, following strictly the Association 
rules. Hauling costs according to distance from rail- 
way or river, say from five to ten cents per box of 
apples. The cost of picking, packing, boxes, wrap- 
ping paper — each apple is wrapped separately — and 
hauling to shipping depot, is now forty cents per 
box. A ten-acre apple orchard in full bearing should 
produce from one thousand to two thousand bushel 
boxes, worth net (free of all expenses) one dollar per 
box. 


CHAPTER XXII 


This last year, the sixth of my sojourn here, has 
sped so swiftly that were it not for the work done on 
what Seton’s mother calls his “playing at business or- 
chard,” I could doubt the evidence of the calendar. 
The motor tractor, working for some of my neigh- 
bors as well as for me, has half paid for itself, and 
is the delight of all of us save Margery Trevor, who 
has christened it Nan the Balker, because it balks 
whenever she tries to run it. As the little tractor 
behaves prettily on all other occasions, obviously 
Margery has not the masterful hands of a machinist 
— the class to which Seldie, Seton, Evelyn, Richard 
and I pride ourselves that we belong. Margery’s 
forte is commanding a kitchen. At this moment she 
is in mine superintending the preparations for the 
dinner we are to give this evening for the Seton Post- 
leys, just returned from honeymooning in a Puget 
Sound cottage. The former Evelyn Gibbons did not 
have to go east to be inspected by a fashionable and 
critical mother-in-law. The mountain came to Mo- 
hammed. Despite Richard’s unveiled hints about the 
wisdom of minding my own business and letting other 
268 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 269 


persons take care of theirs, I wrote to Seton’s mother 
last spring and invited her to come out and “rough 
it” among the apple trees. She came and the unex- 
pected happened. Evelyn’s simplicity, sweetness and 
beauty fascinated her, and in Seldie she instantly saw 
a woman after her own heart. Indeed, allowing for 
the difference in upbringing and environment, Seldie 
and the senior Mrs. Postley, are enough alike to be 
daughters of one mother. Their feeling toward each 
other is so purely sisterly that they have a dozen dis- 
putes in the course of every day they pass together, 
and they pass few days apart, although Seldie is 
again living at the boarding camp near the Big Klick- 
itat. 

Seton’s mother arrived in time to witness the blos- 
soming of the apple trees, and, yielding to the fasci- 
nations of an absolutely novel existence, let week 
after week slip by until the summer was half gone. 
Finally, of her own accord — as she fondly believes — 
she asked Evelyn to marry Seton. That was what 
Seldie had determined to make Mrs. Postley do. I 
never expect to know by what necromancy she ac- 
complished the miracle. 

The marriage took place in the little shack at 
Fleitmanhurst, and, having heard from Mr. Barney 
that the affair was to be very exclusive, Mrs. Blacke- 
McCormick brazenly invited herself and was scandal- 
ized to find Milly Skookem, Sally and the two Jims 


270 APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 


“among those present.” Having watched her son 
depart for a honeymoon with the girl of his — and her 
— choice, what more natural than that Mrs. Postley, 
senior, should linger to superintend the furnishing of 
the bungalow de luxe . That duty performed, she re- 
mained to watch the harvesting of the apples — my 
second crop of King Davids and Delicious. This day 
the little trees are exactly six and a half years old, 
and the fruit recently picked from them as nearly 
perfect as apples can be. It is a goodly crop, but 
not so large as — Providence continuing gracious — 
it will be in future years. With the passing of those 
years other acres of Mira-Monte shall be cleared and 
planted. I have determined to continue the develop- 
ing of land, which responds generously to culture, 
and certainly two-thirds of this quarter section is 
tillable. Despite the pessimistic cries : “Fruit-grow- 
ing is being over-done !” and “Soon the crop of apples 
will be so great that they will not be worth the pick- 
ing !” fruit-growing is not being overdone. The 
crops from twice as many orchards would not 
overstock the markets. But the orchardists of 
the Pacific Northwest are not merely producing fruit. 
They are growing it and packing it according to the 
most advanced ideas relating to every department of 
the industry. They aim at a condition where fruit 
boxes labeled “Washington” or “Oregon” will be 
readily purchased anywhere in the world and sold on 


APPLE WOMAN OF THE KLICKITAT 271 


the strength of those labels. A buyer without open- 
ing the boxes will be satisfied that he is getting ex- 
actly what the label promises. That this already is 
true of a large proportion of the picks is now ac- 
knowledged, and as Associations are rapidly form- 
ing in all important sections, it soon should be true 
of the total pick. The growers have learned that 
only in this way can the export trade be secured and 
increased, and the section slogan is fast becoming: 
“The Pacific Northwest apple is the best apple that 
can be produced.” 


THE END 















































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